What it Means to Break
by MetalWolfMelody
Summary: When Chase attends a medical conference in House's place, he suffers a trauma that leaves him both emotionally and physically broken. When he feels as though he's on the very edge, there's only one man he trusts enough to call for help- House. Can the harsh diagnostician heal wounds that are deeper than physical, or will he hold true to his cruel and insensitive reputation?
1. Chapter 1

"Are you Dr. House?"

"No, I'm here _for_ Dr. House. I apologize for the confusion, I thought he called ahead to confirm that I would be coming in his place" Chase repeated firmly, forcing a weak smile onto his face. He could sense the growing irritation coming from the man behind him, as though the eyes were boring holes into his skull. Trying to keep the smile from faltering, Chase tightened his grip on the handle of his suitcase, and watched as the woman rooted through the badges one more time before yanking one free.

"You are aware that Dr. House is scheduled to give a talk on diagnostics at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon?" the woman prompted with a hard glare, stiffly thrusting out her arm to offer the meeting badge with House's name on it. Chase took it as gratefully as he could, nodding with as much politeness as he could muster.

"Yes ma'am, I'm aware. He has given me a review to present in his place. He was simply unable to abandon a critical case he received late last night. I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused, I really did believe he called ahead" he muttered, feeling the smile start to drop as she rolled her eyes upwards in what must have been disbelief. Chase figured the explanation of her behavior being that she knew of House's less than stellar reputation. If that was the case, no amount of manners would remedy her frustration with a doctor that wasn't even present. With a final nod, Chase walked away from the check-in table, clutching the badge in his hand and hurrying towards the elevator as quickly as he could.

Though he could feel that his face was flushed with the embarrassment spawning from the encounter, he held his head high, surveying the rest of the recent arrivals into the hotel. There were no faces that he could recognize amidst the masses, unable to distinguish the businessmen from the doctors as they milled about the lobby, all wordlessly moving towards their destination with solemn intent. Just as Chase was about to resign himself to being a stranger in solitude, a voice called out, loud and cheerful through the din of dress shoes hitting tile floors.

"Robert? Robert Chase? Is that you?"

At the sound of his name, Chase stopped, and looked around for the source of the voice. Just as he turned to look over his right shoulder, he was surprised with an old but familiar face just a few paces away. The towering form of the tall doctor was hard to mistake, even in a crowd.

"Dr. Lowell?" Chase questioned, feeling practically shocked to see a man from his past, a past that was nearly history by now. The head of oncology from the first hospital he had interned with was standing a few meters away from where he stood now, a smile on the face of the aging man. Though it took some effort to push past the initial shock, Chase was able to pull another artificial smile onto his face, moving forward to greet the other doctor, who had outstretched a hand in welcome.

"Please, call me Jeff" he said cheerfully, shaking Chase's hand firmly. "And of course, it's Dr. Chase now, isn't it? Your internship with us ended just two weeks before graduation. The most promising young intensivist we had seen in quite some while, and have seen since" the older doctor spoke fondly, although Chase was still hunting through his memories for any significant interactions that he had had with Lowell throughout his internship. Finding none in the split second it took for the introduction to pass, Chase kept the smile plastered on his face, ignoring the unpleasant tugging in his cheeks.

"That's correct, it is, but Robert, or just Chase, work fine. How have you been, sir? I haven't seen you in quite some time." The question was Chase's now desperate attempt to see if the older man would somehow hint as to what must be blank spaces in his memory, fill those voids with experience. For Chase was growing continually concerned as he stared at Lowell's face, and could not recall anything outside of the passing comment regarding patients.

"I've been just fine" Lowell answered warmly, ushering Chase towards the elevators with an open hand as they spoke. "I assume that you have had an interesting experience with your job thus far, at the least, with Dr. House. Tell me, what is it like? A world renowned doctor, and you've been working under him for years now. Has it been as wonderful an experience as you were told?" Lowell questioned as Chase stepped into the elevator beside him, punching in their floor numbers with deft fingers. Chase merely shrugged, staring down at the badge he still held in his left hand, the one with House's name on it, unsure exactly how to answer the question without sounding rude and ungrateful, especially to this near stranger.

"It's been everything I hoped for. I really do hope to see you around this afternoon and tomorrow" Chase offered, noting with some degree of relief that he was mere seconds away from arriving on his floor. The interaction had put him inexplicably on edge, despite the fact that seeing a kind and familiar face should be welcoming, if nothing else. In fact, it seemed that Lowell was not eager to see Chase depart.

As the doors slid open, Lowell reached out a hand, and rested it on Chase's arm with the tenderness of an old friend. The smile dropped, and with wide eyes, Chase looked down at the hand on his arm, a wave of anxiety running up his spine at the sensation of the rough skin on his. Looking back up to the other doctor, he saw Lowell still smiling, warmth and kindness filling his eyes, despite the unusual touch.

"I do hope I'll be seeing you as well, Dr. Chase" Lowell spoke softly, before releasing his touch on Chase's arm. The second the contact ceased, Chase pulled himself quickly out of the elevator, suddenly realizing that he needed to take a deep breath after sharing such a confining space. With his suitcase in tow behind him, Chase took a few breaths before checking the number of his room, and walking in that direction with a positive stride, head held high despite his nerves.

Whatever it had been, Chase was unable to shake the unsettled feeling that talking with Lowell had given him. Although he did clearly recall the two years he had spent as a student intern, there was no part of him that remember any special interactions with Lowell, none that warranted the attention he had received just moments earlier. The man had merely been the head of oncology, and often spoke to the surgeon that Chase was working under the supervision of, and sometimes spoke to Chase himself in matters regarding tumors and other cancerous masses. There was something about the degree of friendliness with which Lowell was speaking, the awkward touch as he departed, that put Chase on edge.

But as he arrived at the door to his hotel room, the thoughts shook themselves free from his mind. He was at the two day conference in House's place, and he had a full agenda, including speaking at the presentation that House was supposed to give on diagnostic medicine. A presentation which he had yet to completely prepare, due to the fact he had only been informed the previous night that he was to be attending this conference. Dragging his suitcase into his room, the thoughts of anxiety on Lowell were replaced with anxiety over the next two days, and just how busy he was going to be.

-H-O-U-S-E-

Closing the notebook on his lap, Chase stood, tucking the pen into his shirt pocket as he began to make his way towards the door. He was following a steady stream of other doctors, most of them reduced to shuffling in silence after the long day. A few were exchanging words with one another as they made their way back to the elevators, but for the most part, there was a comfortable silence of content. Night had fallen a few hours ago, but in the brightly lit conference room, it had been hard to tell. The relief that the final talk of the day had come to a close was apparent, and Chase's body was crying out for some rest, despite the fact there would be quite some time before sleep.

It wasn't as though Chase were a stranger to long nights. After pulling all-nighters for House, all he required to be utterly awake and alert the next morning was a cup of coffee and a thirty minute nap. And how the night was going so far, he would have to work off of just as much if he were to get the work completed. The presentation that he was going to prepare wasn't going to finish itself. A laptop and a pad of paper were awaiting him at the desk of his room, and even as he was walking, Chase resisted the urge to sigh in dread.

He was one of the last to leave the room, giving a final nod to the speaker before following the trail of doctors towards the lobby, which were then snaking towards the elevators. A gentle hum was escaping his lips, too soft for anyone else to hear, his mind reaching a serenity of calming work, an attempt to soothe his frayed nerves. But this calmness was broken when a hand clapped down on his shoulder, shattering the picturesque haven that his mind had retreated to.

"Good to see you again, Robert" a gentle voice came by his ear, and Chase turned around, surprised to be looking once more at Lowell. Trying to recover the breath that had been stolen from his lungs at the startling appearance, Chase inhaled deeply and shook his head before responding.

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Lowell" he responded as cordially as possible, his back rigid from the contact on his shoulder, an unfamiliar and unusual touch. Discomfort filled his gut, but he tried to ease himself out of the sudden anxiety by listening to Lowell's warm laugh.

"I told you, please call me Jeff. You're a grown man, Robert, and a doctor at that. We're practically coworkers now. There's no need to keep using such formalities" the brown haired man restated with a chuckle, his hand still remaining on Chase's shoulder.

Swallowing, Chase walked forward still, moving into the lobby, where lines waited at the closed elevator doors. Chase silently screamed inside his skull, knowing that the retreat to his room was still minutes away, and that he would have to endure that much time in discomfort with Lowell's attention focused on him. But it seemed as though Lowell noticed the same as Chase did, and began speaking again, his voice soft.

"Listen, why don't we take the stairs? It'll get us to our rooms quicker than waiting in a line all night. Besides, you're only three floors up, right? It should be no problem" Lowell offered, and Chase nodded, trying to shrug the heavy weight of Lowell's hand off his shoulder. Even if it meant walking a bit further with this man, making him ever more uneasy, Chase was eager to get back to his room and finish the presentation.

 _Quit being so nervous. He's just an old mentor, happy to see you again. Everything's fine_ Chase argued with his mind, able to breathe a bit easier as the hand slid off his shoulder. As he followed the older man down the hall to the side of the lobby, he battled with his thoughts, realizing that there was no justification for his unease. Relaxing ever so slightly, he felt his feet his carpet, watching as they walked down a narrow hall, a few vending machines passing by as they went.

"Did you know they have a pool here? They even have twenty-four hour access, as long as you have your room card. I know that this is just a glorified convention for all of us in white coats, but we at least have some very nice things in this place. Come on, let's take a quick look before we go back to our rooms" Lowell said softly, and Chase managed to shake his head, shying away from Lowell with a sidestep.

"I really do have a lot of work to do" Chase said with a half-smile, trying to hide the tremor in his voice, ignoring the grin that Lowell had on his face. "Maybe we can look tomorrow morning, right? I have a presentation to prepare" he finished, nodding his head towards the end of the hall where the stairwell was located.

As they continued walking, the stench of chlorine increased in intensity, but the softness of Lowell's voice grew sickeningly sweet as he said the next few words in a hushed tone.

"What're you saying, Robert? Don't you want to spend a little time with me tonight? I've missed your face so much since you left. You were always so pretty, weren't you? I'm just glad to see none of that has changed" Lowell whispered, and he reached out a hand, moving to gently touch Chase's hair.

His heart beating with an incredible intensity, Chase batted Lowell's hand away, and backed to the wall of the hallway, eyes wide with fear and confusion. His body was rigid in defense, his eyes darting between the open hand and Lowell's eyes. Trying to push any fear from his voice, he demanded an answer from the older doctor, hiding the disgust he was feeling at the intimate gesture.

"Hey, listen, don't touch me-" but before he could finish, he was cut off by Lowell rushing forward, and the man's fist flying into his face. His world exploded into a bright display of white pain, and he managed to grunt between his teeth a few curses, trying to bring himself back to awareness to swing back, get away. A knee sank into his groin before he could gather a punch and the pain increased tenfold throughout his body.

Weak in the knees and doubled over, Chase only stumbled when Lowell grabbed him by the back of the neck with a grasp hard enough to make him see stars. A clicking sound came through the pain, and Chase registered that he was being dragged through a set of doors, into a dark room. For a moment he was able to pull himself out of the pain and tried to take a step back, however feeble, but he was rewarded with a sharp kick to the back of his knees.

Crying out in pain, Chase couldn't help but feel his eyes burn as Lowell's hands went to his hair, taking fistfuls of it and throwing him roughly over one of the chairs that lined the pool. Chase couldn't hear anything other than Lowell's grunting and the lapping of water through the darkness, a dimly lit room that they must be sharing with the swimming pool. His senses burning from the acrid tang of chlorine and other chemicals, Chase struggled to rise from where he had been thrown, but a knee in his back kept him firmly in place, draped over a lounge chair.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Robert. You don't have to make me do this. Just relax and it'll be over" Lowell growled. Chase couldn't formulate a response, and make a weak attempt to look back at Lowell, despite the knee in his back. After a few more blows to his body, Chase was left gasping for air and struggling to do so much as move, much less turn his head. His ears were ringing, but he could still hear the sound of a belt buckle being undone, a zipper splitting the hesitant silence in the pool area. Though his mind was reeling from the shock of the blows, Chase couldn't imagine the truth of what he was hearing.

"Please, don't do this" he coughed, which earned him another strike to the back of the head, and a hand wrapped around his throat, suddenly cutting off his oxygen. Any other concerns disappeared as he suddenly fought for air, gagging, choking, as the edges of his vision grew dark. Just as he swore he was about to go unconscious, the hand released, and Chase was left gasping for air, his body numb from the trauma.

For a moment the knee was off his back, but before he could move to get up it was pressed down as hard as ever. His knees grated against the ground, skin tearing despite the barrier his pants created between him and the concrete. His torso was being pressed so hard against the chair he could hardly take a breath, his legs on the ground, as though he were kneeling from the waist down. It was then that Lowell's hands found their way to the waistband of Chase's pants, and the doctor struggled again, body sparking in sensation as he fought away from the touch.

The routine repeated, the choking, the gagging, the punches, and when Chase was left feeling as though he was going to die, as though he couldn't move any longer, he felt the sensation of cold air across his bare lower body.

 _No, God, please no_ he begged silently, willing any part of his body to move, but he was too battered. The room was spinning, and he was still struggling to breathe. A rough hand came from behind and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. A voice whispered words into his ear, dripping with malicious intent.

"You were always so pretty, Chase. You never saw how I looked at you, did you? You never noticed me. But I noticed you. You're brilliant, and I want you for myself" the man growled, but before Chase could cry out in protest, white hot pain filled his body.

With the invasive impact, Chase's body was slammed up against the chair, and his lungs were so compressed that he couldn't draw a breath. His vision was swimming as the assault began, ears filled with the thunder of his own rapid heartbeat. Tears filled his eyes, and he could hear Lowell's grunts, feel the pain, and the occasional blow to the side of his head at any signs of a struggle. He tried to cry out, but his throat was raw, and he could hardly draw a breath, much less scream. The pain was overwhelming, and it felt like an eternity that it continued, his lower body filled with pain, and his face was damp with sweat and with tears. But suddenly the intrusion was gone, and the pressure from his back and body was released.

He couldn't move, he couldn't think, he couldn't see. As soon as he tried to turn his head, he felt nausea sweep over him, and he was forced to remain limp over the lounge chair, knees stinging, body screaming in pain from the assault. He heard Lowell moving around, his zipper splitting the silence once again, the buckle sealing the reality. Then the voice came, ever so gently, but with such an evil tone that Chase was left shivering even worse than he already was.

"Don't you think about telling anyone what I did to you. No one will believe you. A story like this would be so ridiculous that not even your best friends could believe you. And if I find out you tried to tell someone? I'll come after you again. And I won't leave you breathing afterwards. You're mind now, Robert Chase."

And with that, the man was gone, and Chase finally felt a sob break free of this throat. The sound was miserable, pathetic, as though he were nothing more than a beaten dog. He could hardly bear to hear himself as he whimpered with each movement.

He rolled off of the lounge chair, shaking terribly as his body impacted the pavement, his muscles failing to catch him. His whole body screamed in pain, but all he could do was reach down and try to yank his pants up, hoping that the moisture he felt wasn't blood. He was surely in enough pain that there was some concern he was bleeding, that something had torn, but he hurried to hide his shame as quickly as he could manage.

It took a full minute before he could bring himself to stand, and when he first got to his feet, his steps were shaking. With the back of his hands, he wiped the tears from his eyes, and stared out into the bright hallway, which was just beyond the corner. Lowell and he had been just out of sight of anyone who might have passed by, and Lowell had sufficiently stifled Chase's screams. He had been utterly alone.

It was difficult to go out into the light, but Chase did so, trying to push the assault out of his mind, despite the pain it took to take each step. Everything ached, and it felt as though his soul had been punched from his body, as though he had been left entirely hollow. And it was on those same shaky legs he made his way up to his room, and the very same legs that gave out beneath him the second he shut the door.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! If you have any comments or critique, feel free to drop a review, or shoot me a PM. I hope to be updating soon! Thanks again :)**


	2. Chapter 2

For what could have been mere minutes or all of an eternity, Chase lay prone on the floor of the hotel room, looking at the dull blue carpet with wide open eyes. Those eyes weren't truly seeing, his vision unfocused at a distance as he stared past the meaningless pattern of static that made up the floor. Instead, he was thinking, strings of words sparking between neurons, bits and pieces that would have been incoherent had he tried to voice them aloud. But even now, the only sounds that left his mouth were pants, gasps, and other distorted sounds of undeniable pain.  
Every time he tried to move, something ached or burned with a fierce intensity. His face, his back, his knees, his chest, every part of his body was screaming in white-hot agony. That mental list was excluding the places where he had been most terribly violated, places which were still hurting with a pain that he couldn't quantify with mere words. The pain had regressed from blinding and indescribable, from an all-consuming fire, to an incredible burning ache. It wasn't the physical pain that had left him paralyzed, it was the hollow feeling in his gut, as though the trauma had shattered his heart into a thousand pieces.  
It was as though the ghosts of Lowell's rough hands were still on his body, still around his throat, still pulling at his hair. The spot in his back where the older doctor's knee had pressed down on him was aching severely, and Chase almost felt as though that weight were still oppressing him, forcing him downwards into a hell where the only sensation was pain. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to try and bring his heart rate down, a heart rate that was jumping at an incredible staccato.  
More time passed, just enough time to allow Chase to begin breathing again, and for the ringing in his ears to become somewhat bearable. After what must have been more than twenty minutes of silent suffering, Chase struggled to his knees, and then to his feet. He relied heavily on the wall for support, running his hand across the textured paper before practically falling into the bathroom, one that was a mere three steps away. With a trembling hand he flicked on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness that seemed to scald his eyes. But there was no strength left to cry out at the surprise of the sensation, and he did nothing more than shy away from the light, trying desperately to avoid any further pain. But after blinking, he adjusted to the whiteness that filled the room, and was able to open his eyes once more.  
At first, he turned his back to the mirror, nauseated by the glimpse he had caught of his face, which was already red, purple, and swollen. Instead he focused his attention to his clothes, looking down at the wrinkled mess they had become. His pants were scored at the knees from the prolonged contact with the cement around the pool, and his shirt was wrinkled, some of the buttons across the chest strained, as though they were threatening to pop off. His tie was off center, and disgusted by the mess that he had become, he ripped the tie off first, and then hastily unbuttoned the shirt. He discarded the fabric to the white tiled floor, kicking off his shoes as he went.  
Despite how painful it was, he carried on with his undershirt, and then stripped off his pants as quickly as possible, trying to forget how Lowell's hands had felt as they had performed the same task so roughly, fingernails scoring across the bare skin of his hips. How the humid air of the room had caressed his bare skin earlier in the night, and he had been left to try to recover from the mess he had become. Growling at the memory, he continued with the task of removing his pants, cursing his memory for capturing everything in vivid sensation. At the same time, he yanked down his undergarments, hissing as felt the strain from the movement across his back and hips. Biting down on his lips, he looked towards the ceiling, afraid to face what might be awaiting him. But as the pain still radiated, he resigned himself to the task, and looked at the fabric. It took only a moment to bring him to sigh again, groaning as he choked back a sob, trying to ignore the burning of his eyes.  
His worst fears were confirmed as he saw the drying crimson smeared across the light blue fabric, his own blood stains from the injuries caused by the trauma. Though he had felt pain, incredible pain, he never imagined it would have been so bad that there was tearing, that there was bleeding. But it seemed that he would not be spared from the worst degrees of horror, even as he retreated to his room, even as he tried to heal. This had quickly evolved into an event that he could not forget, and would never be able to forget, one that held serious, and potentially deadly, consequences.  
Swallowing, Chase realized that there was nothing he could do. Going for help wasn't an option. His body was hollowed from the event, his soul already shattered from the invasion, as though he had died and returned as only half a spirit. There were phantoms more real than he felt at that moment, with the heavy blows to his head, the sound of gentle grunting, the rough thrusts, all playing on repeat in his mind, like a broken record. The memories may as well have been made of glass, for Chase felt his eyes burn with the threat of tears as he stared at the blood again. The red swam in his vision, as though it were blood across white snow, an indication of the crimes that had stolen away innocence and purity.  
In one swift motion he kicked the clothes away, stumbling over to the shower. He was far too sickened by the sight to look at it any longer without vomiting. It took a few moments of fumbling with the knobs to eventually coax water from the showerhead, but soon enough it was streaming from the wall at incredibly high temperatures. The steam was billowing almost immediately, and not caring how the water was splashing across the tiles of the bathroom floor, Chase stepped in, his hair already hanging limp around his face.  
The water scorched his back, but Chase couldn't help but sigh in relief at this new sensation. If water could somehow burn away the sins that had devastated his body, there was some chance that he could still be saved. The thought of salvation and purity invigorated him, sending some of the trembles racing away, allowing him to stand a bit easier. This false security, the fantasy temptations of heavenly relief were soothing him for the time being, which was going to have to be enough. With clumsy hands, Chase groped for the soap that had been sitting on the ledge, and quickly ran it across his body.  
Soap bubbles washed down the drain with the ribbons of steaming water, and for just a moment, Chase felt as though he could breathe without restriction. There was a chance that he could wash away the memories, wash away the cruel touch, wash away the terrible trauma. As quickly as he could manage in his weakened state, Chase scrubbed the soap vigorously across every inch of his body, feeling the cool block kiss his skin gently, promising to take away the pain.  
But even as the bar of soap fell away into nothing across his skin as he rubbed it, the pain, the sensation of touch, those things remained, just as vividly as when he began the frenzied ritual. The memories were still as bright as the noon sun, blinding his mind to anything else. The shortened breaths returned, the anxiety overwhelming him in an oppressive wave. Suddenly he found himself unable to bear the heat of the water, which had turned his back incredibly red and raw. Chase stepped out of the shower, clutching for the towel hung above the toilet with a quivering hand, hardly able to hold onto the soft fabric.  
Wrapping it around himself, Chase stumbled back into the main room, collapsing in the chair in front of the wooden desk. The lamp was still on from when he had sat there earlier, working on the presentation that he was scheduled to give tomorrow afternoon. For the first time in more than an hour, Chase felt his lips form a smile, a smile brought on by nothing other than the lack of understanding of how to process these new emotions. He had no other way to process his thoughts, and his mouth had defaulted to a wry grin as he stared at the scene before him.  
Earlier, he had had no idea what was going to happen, just what was going to be stolen from him by a man he hardly knew. He had only been worried about this stupid paper, the stupid presentation, such stupid, petty little things. Then his world had come crashing down, his body battered, his whole soul stolen away in a matter of minutes. An apocalypse of the mind and body, utter obliteration of what he was. The notes scribbled in the margins of a half-typed paper seemed distant now, as though they were written by someone else entirely.  
'Someone else' meaning someone who was innocent, someone who was pure. Who hadn't felt what Chase had felt, been through what he had been through. He was still reeling from the reality of what he had been through. It was a reality that he was still trying to vehemently deny, despite the memories that told him the truth with utterly express clarity. Those notes, worrying over how to phrase a few thoughts on diagnostics, they were nearly foreign to him now. They were from a time long past, written by a person who had never truly suffered.  
But as he stared at his own work for a bit longer, Chase realized that those notes were just as important as they had been earlier in the day. Just because he had suffered through horrors, that didn't mean his life would stop, that the earth would stop spinning. He was all too aware of the ER procedures for those who had suffered similarly to himself, and before this night, he had just felt pity for them. But now he could understand that hollow look they always had in their eyes, the way they drew their knees up to their chests and couldn't even think about looking anyone in the eyes. Now, as he was gasping for breath, aching on every square inch of his body, he truly understood why those victims looked like the living dead.  
Overwhelmed with a sick feeling at the recollection, Chase reached out his hand, and grabbed for his cell phone out of mere instinct. He had left it sitting on his desk during the talk, and it was still there. He gripped it in his hands, flipping it open, staring at the small screen that glared so brightly back at him. His thumbs hovered over the keys, but he realized that they didn't know where to go. He couldn't think of a single number to call, a single voice that could bring him comfort.  
Of course, the thought of calling someone brought back the threats that Lowell had whispered into his ear following the trauma. More than just the threat of death if he was found to tell, another happening similar to the one he had suffered, and disbelief. It was the idea of disbelief that terrified Chase the most. He went over the story again in his head, and nearly cried out. What Lowell had said was true; if he ever spoke a word of this to anyone, they would fail to believe him. The thought of another doctor doing to him what had been done was utter fiction, and the words would make him sound as though he were insane, accusatory.  
If he were to even try to confess to what had happened to him, there would be nothing resonating except for disbelief. Perhaps even laughter would await him at the other end of the line, if he had tried to call anyone, if anyone would even be bothered to pick up so late at night. Choking back a sob, Chase gave the phone one last forlorn look before shutting it, the light disappearing.  
He tossed it back onto the desk, and took a few deep breaths as he looked away from the device. It seemed that most of the shaking that had overwhelmed his body had stopped, although the pain had far from ceased. Blinking a few times as he groaned, Chase stood, turning his back to the presentation that he was supposed to be working on. His suitcase lay on the couch, and he rooted through it for clean boxers and a t-shirt.  
It was painful to yank them on, but he was able to push through the pain long enough to make himself decent again. Sighing once more, his battered body covered with the smooth fabric, Chase moved back to the bathroom, finally looking in the mirror with a weak serving of courage. With the t-shirt covering his chest, he was positive that most of the bruises from the body blows were covered, and would pose no issue in the following days of healing. The only problems left were the imprints on his neck, and the swollen mess that had come to nearly engulf his left eye.  
Realizing that such a poor personal appearance had no place at the review he was going to give the next afternoon, Chase bit down on his lip and grabbed the small bucket from beside the hotel sink. He yanked on the pants that had laid on the bathroom floor, kicking away the underwear that had the bloodstains, trying to ignore how they churned his stomach. Easing on the shoes, Chase gave himself a look in the mirror, trying to ignore the fact he looked like a college kid who just got in a bar fight. With a final deep breathe, he moved out into the hallway, the bucket in hand.  
It was a long journey to the ice machine at the end of the hall opposite his own, and the entire time, it felt as though he were about to be attacked. Almost as though a man were standing behind his shoulder with each step he took, as though another pair of hands were about to wrap around his throat and choke him until he couldn't draw air. But there wasn't another soul out in the hallway, no footsteps, no sound of elevator doors opening. He was utterly alone, but still felt as though he were seconds away from utter destruction. It was enough to drive him mad.  
Warily, Chase let ice pour into the bucket from the machine, and the very second it was full, he moved to retreat his room, just as warily as before. Once again, the passage through the hall occurred without incidence, and Chase was able to find solitude in his room once more.  
Taking a towel from beside the sink, Chase wrapped the ice in the pristine white fabric, and held it to his eye, nearly wincing from the touch alone. He was thankful that there had been only one punch to his face, that the rest had been focused on his skull and his body, where the bruises would not show. A single swollen eye, bruised and damaged, could always be explained by sheer stupidity. A night in a bar gone bad was as valid an explanation as any, anything at all except for the horrifying truth.  
It was the dark lines on his neck that seemed more suspicious, those dark blue fingerprints that marked themselves into his skin like tattoos. Though a bar fight could attribute to the same, it seemed nearly unbelievable, far more unlikely. Most drunken fights were fought with knuckles, not with fingers wrapped around throats. Even still, he could feel the lie about to roll off his lips, a perfect rehearsal. Staring himself in the one good eye in the silver of the mirror, Chase muttered the words to himself softly.  
"I just got into a little bar fight. The guy was being an idiot, and I told him off. He didn't like that, and the bloody idiot went and punched me" he told himself, watching his lips move as the words came out. They sounded almost as though they had come from the mouth of another person, the sickly lie and excuse for what had transpired. And for a moment, Chase almost believed himself, before the memories came flooding back.  
He couldn't bear to look at himself any longer. He moved back to the desk, pressing the cool towel to his eye, hoping that the swelling and bruising would fade from their currently vivid shade. With the towel in his left hand, and the pen in his right, he began reading over the presentation again. After all, there was nothing else he could do. The words filled his mind, blocking out the memories, no matter the fact that they were as loud as thunder.  
 _For the patient, it seemed that they were suffering from three completely unrelated symptoms, which could not be explained, even in accounting for unusual presentations of likely ailments…_  
 **Thank you all so much for the incredible support I have on this story already! It's amazing how many follows, favorites, and reviews I got on just one chapter. To all of you, thank you! Now though this chapter may have been a bit dull, I promise, Chase's troubles aren't over yet. He still believes he has been through the worst, but he doesn't know what lies ahead... I'll be posting the next chapter (an exciting chapter!) quite soon. Thanks for sticking with me, hope you enjoy!**


	3. Chapter 3

The room was small, but with the number of chairs that had been stuffed between the four walls, Chase swore that he may as well have been facing an army. Slowly, doctors filtered in to fill the seats, some of them with notebooks in their hands, some with fresh cups of coffee, all of them smartly dressed. Some of them were smiling, others were solemn faced while they made their way. A few exchanged words with one another, but as the hands on the clock ticked closer to three, silence grew more and more overwhelming while man after man settled himself down into attentiveness.

Chase stood at the small table that was a pathetic substitute for a proper podium, looking at the microphone that lay on it beside his notes. He was sweating terribly profusely, so terribly that he swore he could feel the beads dripping down his forehead. His hands were shaking, and his heart was beating rapidly, so quickly that he swore that it would give out any second under the strain.

The room swayed for just a moment before he was able to collect himself, beg his body to cooperate for just an hour. The seats were almost all filled, and now that it was three, eyes stared at him expectantly. Suppressing the effects of his nerves, he surveyed the crowd, trying to deduce who was staring at the purple ringing his left eye, or at the bruises that peeked from above his collar. Most of all, he looked nervously for the Lowell, the hulking body, the dark brown eyes, the black hair that was growing peppered with white.

Fortunately, it seemed that the man was absent, and there was no one gawking at his appearance, which sent a wave of relief through Chase's body. He had been working to avoid the man all day, skipping a few talks if he so much saw Lowell's body heading for the room. The previous night had left him scarred, left him hollow, left him aching inside and out. Even now, standing, the mere action of taking a single step made his whole body cry out in pain. But he had done his best to push past the agony, and strive forward into the next day as though he were somehow unbroken. He had been left with no other choice.

What could he do except move forward? He was faced with ultimately two choices: to move on, or to give up. And while Chase was many things, he was no quitter. So now his options expanded as he chose his path- nurse his wounds, put on a brave face, and do his best to avoid another incidence. They did no more for the victims that made their way to the ER, those young women that came into the hospital with glazed eyes, terror stricken. All that you could do was heal the physical wounds, and force them into pretending the world hadn't fallen apart before you sent them on their way.

As it was, Chase was hardly holding together, sometimes escaping into the bathroom to ease his shallow breaths, his beating heart. Cold water and deep breaths only went so far as the talk loomed, and the memories replayed in his mind. He was tense all over, a shell filled with static, and that feeling had yet to cease.

Staring out at the crowd did nothing to ease his nerves. Despite not seeing Lowell in the mass of doctors in attendance, the speech was ill-prepared after a sleepless night, and it wasn't his name that had been attached to the talk- it had been House's. These men and women were expecting a world class diagnostician, and were getting nothing more than his apprentice, a nervous young man in quite a sorry state. He reached forward and grabbed the microphone, turning it on after fumbling with it for a few moments, the black plastic shell slipping in his sweating palms. Then it whined slightly, and the light came on, at which point Chase brought it close to his lips.

"My name is Dr. Robert Chase, and today I will be giving a brief review in a presentation of diagnostic medicine. Dr. Gregory House was supposed to give this presentation for you today, but he has been called away for a recent critical case. I will give the review that he prepared in his place" Chase declared with a firm tone, trying to hide any tremor that would have threatened to escape his throat. Surprisingly, he sounded nearly confident when he heard his voice echoed back over the small speakers that extended into the back of the room. It also seemed that all of the people in the room had fallen silent, paying acute attention to him.

Rather than putting him more on edge, Chase suddenly felt himself relaxing at this. They were attentive, but if anything else, they appeared welcoming. None of the faces stared at him with cruelty or judgement, just curiosity. The sick feeling in his stomach dissipated, and the tightness in his lungs disappeared. It felt as though he were finally able to draw a full breath. It was almost as though he were at peace, more so than he had been in a day. Looking down at the half typed, half handwritten notes, Chase launched into the speech that he had prepared, trying to keep his voice calm and even.

"The specific example I will be using today is from a case that occurred four months ago in the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, assigned to Dr. Gregory House. For the patient, it seemed that they were suffering from three completely unrelated symptoms, which could not be explained, even in accounting for unusual presentations of likely ailments…"

-H-O-U-S-E-

The end of the day came quickly, a bit too quickly for Chase's tastes. While completely engrossed in some of the captivating speeches and reviews given, he had been able to forget the horrors, forget the pain, despite how recent the assault had been. It was almost as though he were able to do just what he had tried to convince himself to do- carry on with the day as normally as possible, pushing away the events of the previous night to the deepest recesses of his mind.

His final talk of the day had just concluded, a fellow intensivist discussing some of the most recent surgical tools that had been introduced to the market. Despite the talk finishing almost half an hour earlier, Chase had been intrigued by the man, and stayed after to talk with him. Night had fallen hours ago, and it was late in the evening now, even more late than the previous night. The conference room had been rather small, and it had only been a group of about ten men circled around a large table, making Chase feel both safe and welcome.

But now Chase was wishing well to the other intensivist, shaking his hand with a warm smile. His own talk had went well earlier, and afterwards, he had been spoken to by a few other doctors, interested in what he had said during his presentation. There had been few times where he had felt completely flustered out of a happy, nervous embarrassment. It had eased his anxiety by tenfold, and allowed him to carry on throughout the day, pushing away the phantoms of Lowell's touch with the reality of positive sensation before his eyes.

Now that night had fallen, a blanket of darkness having fallen over the earth, Chase was yearning fiercely for sleep. There was one day left to the conference, and though he wouldn't have admitted it to another soul, there was a deep excitement in his gut for the coming dawn. Not excited for the anxiety, or for the feeling that each turn would harbor a new threat, but for the knowledge he would gain through the wisdom of the other doctors in attendance. Chase had an easy time understanding why House had such a strong distaste for similar events, but he had no arguments for going in the man's place. There were so many people, but there was also an incredible fountain of knowledge, a collective intelligence that spoke to Chase's very heart. Had the circumstances been better, Chase knew that he would have thrived even more than he already had over the long weekend.

With a final nod to the other intensivist out of courtesy, Chase walked out of the room, hearing the lights turn off behind him. He turned the corner to head towards the lobby from the branching hall where the conference room was located, only to nearly run headfirst into another man. Stumbling backwards, Chase caught his breath and looked up, already spitting out a hasty apology out of habit.

"I'm so sorry-" he began, but stopped abruptly as he recognized the body, and the smile that brought about a recollection of the Cheshire cat. It was none other than Lowell that had blocked his path, and was now staring down at him with a sick grin and twinkling eyes that spoke of incredible malice.

"No need to apologize, Robert" his voice seemed to purr, almost as though he were a friend, a lover. Chase could already feel the walls closing in at this twisted expression of both cruelty and feigned intimacy. He took a single step backwards, looking to the side for no longer than a blink, just to see if the other intensivist had already walked away. This fear was confirmed- the only soul that had been his hope of redemption had long since disappeared from sight. There was no one else down the long hall, not another doctor, not a businessman, not so much as a maid dragging themselves down the hallway that led to nowhere but empty rooms.

"Now now, don't go making any sounds. You'd be making a scene for nothing, wouldn't you? All I'm doing is standing here talking to you. There's no harm in that. Just two guys, two doctors, talking about medical procedures" Lowell continued, taking a half step closer to Chase as he continued with that same voice, one that made Chase want to retch.

Chase's breath was stolen from his lungs, and he couldn't even gather the strength to take another step back. There were no other people that he could see, and even if there was someone within earshot, he knew Lowell was right. Nothing was happening between them at this moment in time. They were two men, standing together, not one hair out of place in the scene that Lowell had orchestrated so carefully. In essence, there was indeed nothing happening.

Nothing except his body threatening to shut down, to give up. His shaking knees, the aching with each step he took, each served as a glaring reminder that his beaten body had suffered enough abuse within the past day to last a lifetime. But now Lowell was here again, blocking his only retreat to safety, the air thick with the unspoken threat. Before Chase had a chance to say another word, somehow protest his inevitable fate, Lowell's hands were there around his throat again, cutting off his air. No punch lead the assault to render him senseless; the anxiety had done that job before Lowell even touched him.

Now the aggressive touch was making him weak, utterly weak and defenseless. His knees were buckling, and even though he brought his hands up to grapple with the arms cutting off his oxygen, it was clear that the larger doctor had the upper hand. Chase was forced backwards, and he tumbled through the doors to the conference room that he had just been in, tight walls closing in around him as he and his attacker were isolated from the rest of the world.

Once again, it was dark, and Chase was on the verge of passing out from oxygen deprivation. His heart was thundering like a storm in his chest, at a pace he suspected was upward of one hundred and sixty beats per minute. And it hadn't been a full minute- he could just feel the pulse of blood in every limb as he fought for breath against the large man, whose fingers were still serving as an effective vice across his air supply.

As soon as they were both completely within the room, Chase found himself being thrown to the floor as though he were nothing more than a limp toy, garbage meant to be discarded. He hit his head against the edge of the oak table on the way down, and the cracking sound met his own ears with an explosion of pain to couple with it. He hit the floor rough, his shoulder jamming down into the carpet first, and the rest of his body following, including a head that smacked uselessly against the ground.

Groaning was his first response, bringing a hand up to grab for the shoulder as he rolled onto his back. This was nothing other than human instinct, the desperate need to appease the pain that had burst through his nerves like an open flame. Lowell was forgotten as last night's injuries overwhelmed his senses with a renewed wave of sensation, and his head spun from the impact on the table. The door shut with a loud clicking noise, and all light from the hallway was completely cut off by the solid wood. This was enough to bring Chase to a half sitting position, propping himself up on his elbows as he pushed away the new feeling of nausea, still trying to process the events that were happening around him.

Lowell stood over him, reminding Chase's pain-addled brain of a bear about to attack, one that was prepared to tear their prey apart with claws and fangs, inflicting pain before a merciless death. The hulking form blocked his vision, and he was barely able to push himself an inch backwards before Lowell crouched down, yanking Chase up by his tie. The force was enough to pull Chase's torso from the ground, and with a wave of pain, he felt his head lolling back, muscles unresponsive. The pressure the tie was putting on the back of his neck was uncomfortable, and it was enough to lift him from the floor. But more so than the pain, more so than the fear, it was Lowell's words that pierced his mind as his attacker spoke. Out of all the things to feel, his pain-addled brain allowed him to hear what was effectively a death sentence.

"Did you try to call someone last night, Robert? I don't think you did. Look at you, smiling and walking around and talking. I even heard that lovely review you gave today. I know you didn't see me, but I was there, listening. You're so wonderfully brilliant, Robert, you really are. That's why no one can know about us. They'll look at you like a joke. You're going to be a world famous intensivist in a matter of years. Something like this on your permanent record, you'll be going nowhere. You wouldn't dare tell a soul, would you, Robert?" Lowell hissed beneath his breath, leaning so close that Chase could feel the foul air washing over his face. In his panic, he was hardly able to stutter out so much as a single word, trying to ignore the thought of the coming pain.

"N-no…" he trailed off, to which Lowell dropped him back again, letting his upper body hit the floor as his tie was released. Choking and gasping for air, Chase heard the familiar sound of a belt buckle being undone once again, and this time, the truth of what was going to follow this noise was perfectly clear. The panic was renewed, and as the haze from the blow to the head was fading ever so slightly, Chase scrambled to roll onto his stomach. The hazy and blurred vision fixed on the outline of light coming from beyond the closed door, a brilliant ribbon of gold crying out from gaps in the blackness. Struggling to inch forward with all of his remaining strength, as though he were a child struggling to crawl, Chase stretched a hand out in an attempt to reach the door. He reached for it with such despair, as though it were in the one thing in the world that could provide his soul salvation.

"Oh no you don't" Lowell grunted in what must have been disgust, and a shoe came crashing down on Chase's back, forcing him to the floor again in a single sharp blow. Chase cried out weakly, but it emerged as a whimper, not a yell, for the force had once more expelled all of the air from his lungs. His eyes were burning with tears, and he could already feel the moisture from the sorrow dripping down his face. The shoe remained on his back, and the sounds from the previous night revealed themselves once again. The zipper, the shuffling of fabric, but most importantly was a renewed lack of sensation. The crushing weight of the shoe on his back relented for just a moment as Lowell continued to adjust himself, providing Chase with a window of opportunity.

 _Please, please not again_ Chase begged to the heavens, struggling to free himself from the weight holding him down. He used his elbows to pull himself a bit further towards the door, feeling the weight shift from his back the slightest bit more, allowing him a chance at movement. Feeling the release, he struggled upwards on his elbows, and then dug the toe of his shoe into the ground. All of these were in an attempt to launch himself upwards and forwards, which seemed to be the most promising chance at escape. But before he could reach for the door handle, fabric filled his parted mouth, snapping his neck back and forcing him to gag.

Before he could process what was happening, he was choking for air, the cloth effectively serving to stifle his attempt at desperate words and cries of pain. Lowell had a firm grip on this smooth cloth, holding Chase's head back tightly as the weight returned on his back, just as strict as it had begun.

"Don't even think about it, dear. You belong to me" Lowell hissed again, and Chase let out a weak cry into the gag. His body was trembling as though it were no more than a leaf in a storm. To say that he was desperate to get escape was an understatement, and as his fate loomed, Chase knew that he had no other choice. He had to free himself from this hell, he had to at least try, even if it cost him his life. There was no part of him that could survive another assault, not after he had suffered as he did last night. If his mind was able to survive, his body was incredibly battered, and would have not the strength to last too much longer than an utterly broken spirit.

Despite the fabric filling his mouth, the urge to fight for the survival was utterly overbearing, over any other instinct that he possessed at that moment. Gathering the willpower from all of his hopes and dreams for a pure future, Chase used all of the strength left in his body to lunge for the door handle with a cry. The sound was lost in his throat, and his neck snapped back with the effort. Every part of his body screamed, but his hand was rising towards that dim shadow of silver and promise, like a dove to signify peace and salvation. The scene played out in slow motion, and Chase willed himself forward, upwards, closer and closer to that device that was his only hope at survival.

The world snapped into attention as his fingers brushed against cool metal, reminding him in that instant of the surgical tools those very same fingers grasped day after day. Against all odds, he had managed to reach it, although the strain on all parts of his body was the first sacrifice of such a daring attempt. The suddenness with which he had made the motion caused him to feel like he was coming apart at the seams, as though the sinew holding him together had torn apart. But his fingers brushed against the smooth metal, despite the pain, and he knew just what to do as he gripped with all his might. He yanked downwards, pulling the door towards himself with all his might.

The reward for his efforts was immediate. The door cracked open ever so slightly, and even though he couldn't breathe or move himself much further, Chase managed to grab for the opening that had formed as the door cracked, just a sliver. Wrapping his fingers around the wood, Chase to call out against the gag that was in his mouth, pull the door all the way open in the hope that some wandering eyes might catch sight of him. But before he ever had the chance to attempt such an act, despite straining with all of his might towards a chance at freedom, his world exploded into pain.

Lowell's hand grabbed for the door, slamming it shut with an open palm as he fell short. Chase's fingers never had a chance to escape, their hold on the wood still strong. While the door shut, Chase's fingers followed, becoming the impact between the body of the door and the doorjamb. The sound of bones crunching filled the air, and Chase's muffled screams echoed within his skull. It was as though his hand were nothing but pain, a white hot burning sensation that overwhelmed his body with the intensity of death itself. But it seemed that Lowell wasn't done with his torment, and just as Chase thought that there was no way that the world could hold more pain, Lowell struck out. The door had opened ever so slightly, and as Chase's hand fell prone and broken in the opening, Lowell slammed it shut again with the same speed and force.

The sound of bones shifting and breaking resonated again, and Chase screamed, his throat threatening to go completely raw from the strain, the insatiable desire to express his agony. This new world of pain was one that pushed him to the edge of blackout, a burning and crying that stole his breath away. He couldn't think of anything except the pain as the door shut on not just his fingers, but his knuckles, his hands, the gap of the door mangling his hand beyond recognition. This cycle repeated, for the second that the door opened ever so slightly, Lowell would shut it again and again, the abuse on Chase's body threatening to span on into eternity.

When Lowell finally stopped, Chase couldn't scream, as his throat was now left utterly raw from the effort to be heard. All he could manage were tearful whimpers as he yanked his screaming hand back towards his body, and Lowell shut the door once and for all. Chase wanted nothing more than death, a wonderful, peaceful death that would spare him from the agony. He wanted to cradle his hand to his chest, but he was forced back onto the ground, head to the carpet, arm and hand extended limp out in front of him. Lowell's hands found the waistband of the young doctor's pants once more, his fingers working beneath them to fondle Chase roughly before yanking the fabric off. This final action left Chase utterly exposed, leaving his naked lower body to grate against the rough carpet.

Chase knew that he couldn't fight back. He could hardly move his right arm, and the pain in his fingers was so immense that he couldn't move the digits at all, not so much as a twitch. Perhaps the darkness was a blessing, a chance to spare him from the grotesque creature that part of his limb had become. The pain filled his mind, nothing bu the pain, the stabbing, the aching, the burning, the bleeding, the crying inside of his body, it dominated his whole being.

It was then that he blacked out momentarily, the world going utterly black and silent. This occurred just as Lowell grabbed his collar again, hauling his chest off of the ground. Chase welcomed the blackness, no matter how brief it was, only mere seconds of solace. When he came to, Lowell had begun another assault, his body shaking with the older doctor's efforts.

That pain brought on by this physical attack was nothing compared to the pain of his hand. His will and soul had already been stolen the previous night, and the second assault was only adding insult to the initial injury. Chase could only focused on his hand, the feeling of his bones mangled beyond repair, warm blood gushing down white-hot fingertips. Just as those thoughts passed his mind, sweat and tears dripping down his face, he blacked out again.

It was in and out of consciousness he drifted until Lowell was done, gasping for air against the gag, fighting to control the pain ravishing his body in the moments his eyes were open. Between these desperate efforts to live, it was the world of darkness that claimed him for seconds at a time, allowing him some sort of reprieve from the assault. Lowell was hardly a figure at this point- he was merely another body in the room as Chase suffered in utter hell, one encased within his body, not brought on by another man.

The drifting consciousness soon came to cease, and the world of the waking appeared to be around to stay. It was this growing sense of clarity that led Chase to realize that he was alone, that the intrusion in his body was absent, and the strength behind the gag had gone slack. In fact, the cloth was entirely removed from his mouth, as was the weight pressing down on his body. But the pain wasn't gone, nor was the feeling of moisture between his legs, likely more blood. The throbbing and burning of a broken, mangled hand was what dominated his mind, these feelings all still present.

Gasping for breath, Chase rolled onto his back, crying out as his right hand flopped uselessly against the ground. It took less time than yesterday for him to rise, despite the pain that had increased in amounts nearly intangible to him before. Even though his right hand was useless, the desire to retreat, to find a release from pain, was much more urgent and desperate. The assault was nothing compared to his hand, which was causing him to cry still, in whimpers and in tears. Struggling to his feet, he yanked up his pants with his left hand, fumbling to secure the button and yank his shirt down over it. Losing the complete use of a body part was crippling, but still Chase managed, trying to push the confusion out of his mind as he went.

Though the tears still stained his face, Chase cradled his broken hand to his chest, and used his left hand to throw open the door that Lowell must have left cracked when he left. Delirious with pain, Chase looked won the hall for any signs of life. Recognizing none, he turned to the far end of the hall, where another stairwell was located. It was difficult to take each and every step, but more than anything, Chase needed to be alone. He needed to get back to his room, needed to cry, needed to clean himself up and recover. The knot on his head was throbbing, and through the nausea, Chase realized that he might have a concussion from his collision with the table. More concerning was how his body shook, as though he were falling into shock. Swallowing with the weight of his own pathetic condition, Chase grit his teeth and pushed on, hoping desperately to retreat to safety in his room.

It took minutes, struggling up the stairs, his right hand throbbing with more pain than he had ever felt. But his left hand still had a full range of motion, and he was able to fight to his room, and enter it as he had the night before. Most successfully, there had been no one in the hallway to ask why he was sobbing, why his hand was contorted into an unnatural shape, why his tie was over his shoulder and his shirt untucked. He was utterly alone, just like before.

This time, he didn't collapse onto the floor the moment his door shut behind him. He made it to the desk, collapsing in the rolling chair, before he started bawling like a child. He knew that this time, there was no way to get out of going to a hospital. The pain in his hand told him that the damage was to a degree that needed emergency care, and the blood that he could feel soaking into his pants told him that the damage from the previous assault had only been amplified. But there was no hospital he could go to like this, no one that he could tell his story to. It would be too much care, too much concern, too many questions. In this state, Chase knew he might as well kill himself to escape not just the pain, but the shame and humiliation that he would be carrying with him the rest of his life.

Through blurry eyes, he spotted the silver cell phone that he had agonized over the night before. With his left hand, he grabbed it, against the thoughts that his mind was crying out to him. Fighting past the pain, Chase considered who he could call. Who could help him, and who would leave him with his dignity, ignore the shame that had come with his violation. Even though his conscious mind was grappling with the decision, his left hand was already seeking out a number stored in the contacts. Shaking, shivering with fear and pain, Chase brought the phone to his ear, hearing it ring.

 _Please pick up please pick up please pick up…_

" _Aren't you at a medical conference?"_ A familiar voice came through the line, though tinny and artificial through the small speaker. Though Chase could have sighed in relief at the sound of a voice that he knew, some sort of comfort, nothing escaped his mouth except a childlike whimper. He had no strength in his voice had nothing in it to hide the pain he was in, the fact he had been crying and screaming. It was without any sort of resistance that he gave in to the words that his mind wanted to cry, the plea rolling off his tongue without so much as a second thought.

"Please, please come get me. I need help, House. I need you to help me."

 **Thank you all so much for reading! The support I've received so far is amazing- I just love reading all the feedback! You guys are the best. I hope to be giving you guys an update on this story soon. I sincerely appreciate every single follow, favorite, and review on this story. If you have any comments, questions, or critique, I welcome both reviews and PMs. Thanks again so much, hope that you enjoyed!**


	4. Chapter 4

Initially, House ignored the cell phone as it buzzed against the wooden table, the sound penetrating the solace that he had formed in his mind. He held a new guitar in his hands at the moment, the smooth finish such a wonderful feeling beneath his fingers that it brought him close to bliss. The guitar was actually far from a new model- it was a refurbished vintage, one that he had had his eye on for the better part of two years. Though the price tag had been daunting, he had finally caved to his insatiable desires, and shelled out the cash that would land the beautiful instrument in his hands.

More so than just the weight of money that went into the purchase, the seller was located in Ohio, an additional investment of quite a few hours of driving. Though he had never planned to go to the conference in the first place, the purchase of the instrument served as yet another excuse to avoid the loathsome situation. Instead of confessing to Cuddy that he would be missing the talk she had scheduled him for, he had assigned Chase to go in his place without telling another soul. This forced reassignment of duties had occurred the very night before the intensivist had to leave to make the conference in ample time.

It had been somewhat humorous to see the blonde's eyes go wide at the news, and hear him stutter in surprise to the unexpected trip. The reaction had been full of surprise and shock, just what House had expected, and even looked forward to seeing from his employee. Even better, House had been given a front row seat to Chase's fear as he explained to the intensivist just what his duties at the conference included. For the young doctor to hear that he was to be giving a review of diagnostic medicine in the elder doctor's place had brought Chase near to collapsing, and House admittedly took some pleasure in watching Chase's knees shake at the prospects of such a task.

 _"Tell them that a case has come up for me, an emergency that needs my full attention."_ Those were the words that had left his mouth, no shame at the delivery of the blatant lie. There had been nonchalance to his tone, although what he were asking was not an assignment of tremendous weight, as though it were no sin to be so uncaring. It was only then that he had left Chase alone, standing shocked in the middle of the office, now with a full three-day weekend conference on his hands. At that point, House had felt rather amused, and even enthralled that he had managed to avoid yet another obligation that Cuddy had forced upon him.

Now it seemed that the young doctor was in need of some sort of attention, perhaps brought on by panic, or by some other sort of minor disaster in the wake of obligation. House was sitting and plucking the strings even as the phone went off, hearing them vibrate with gloriously brilliant sound as Chase's name blinked across the small screen of the phone. He merely struck one more chord before giving in to the maddening ringtone and reaching for the phone, slightly irritated with the interruption. It was late at night, incredibly so, but that aided in his decision to reach for the phone. If Chase was calling so late, and to House's personal cell, no less, it was surely something important. That fact did not ease House's irritancy at the call, and that sour feeling was reflected in his tone as he answered.

"Aren't you supposed to be at a medical conference?" he questioned with a bite to his tone, placing the guitar gently beside him as he awaited a response from the youngest member of his team. Surprisingly, nothing but silence was his initial response, forgive a soft crackling sound coming over the line, the source of which House could not identify. But Chase answered soon after a few more moments, his voice uncharacteristically softened.

" _Please, please come get me. I need help, House. I need you to help me."_

The plea was enough to make House's spine go rigid, and for his hand grab instinctually for his cane at the clearly identifiable sound of desperation. Despite his usually cold demeanor, the sound of pain was unmistakable to House's ears, and one that always brought him to a high degree of alert. Though the tone of his voice was one matter, Chase's pleading demand was also clearly understandable, yet terribly out of place. House struggled to his feet, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he went, trying to secure the device so he could use both of his hands freely. One freed hand was use to bear his weight onto the cane, the other to press to his forehead in an attempt to quell the coming headache. Before he would dignify a response to Chase's begging, before he would go out of his way to turn his evening around for an employee, he had one final duty. With a sigh beneath his breath, he asked a question that had come to the tip of his tongue the instant he heard Chase's distress, an emotion never found in a man so unshakable.

"Have you been drinking? Go out to a bar? Any recreational drugs?"

" _No! No, none of those. That's not it_ " the intensivist choked out, this time without hesitation. It was obvious that he was wounded severely by this accusation, one which House had voiced as a mere precaution to distress.

"What's wrong, Chase?" House asked, keeping his voice level as he went, now opting to set the guitar back in its case with his left hand, while balancing himself carefully with his right. Everything about Chase's language and tone told House that he should tread lightly, if nothing else. The proud Aussie would never fold unless there was something of grave and terrible importance, perhaps life or death, if not the influence of one drug or another. House busied himself with tucking the precious guitar away as silence came to his ears, along with the same crackling sound as earlier. It took a few more moments, and the sound of a small whimper, before Chase's voice came again to break the silence that had spanned between them.

" _I can't- I can't talk about it. I just need help. I got hurt. I got hurt really badly_." Despite how upset Chase sounded, House had to use all of his willpower to bite back a sarcastic comment regarding the irony of a doctor getting hurt at a medical conference. For once in his life he was able to hold his tongue, however painful it might have been, just to spare Chase any additional misery and humiliation. House moved forward to snatch the keys from their hook by the door, trying to push away the concern blooming in his chest at the pain tainting Chase's voice. Though curiosity urged him to question further, as he was conditioned as a doctor to do, he figured that getting a firm handle on the situation would serve best for the time being.

"Listen, Chase, if you're really hurt, just get to a hospital. If you can't get home because of your problem, I'll meet you there and get you home" he tried to reason, but before he could get another word out, Chase cut him off with a high-pitched cry.

" _No! I can't go to a hospital, not here. Please House, just believe me. Please. You're the only one that can help me. Please, I need you_ " he whimpered, and it was after those words that Chase collapsed into sobbing. The distortion of the sound from over the phone made the crying sound utterly hideous, as though a child were pouring out his heart and soul to the world to show his pain. If anything, this abhorrent display of emotion spurred House forward yet, bringing a sense of urgency to his motions at is employee's infantile signs of distress. He was already climbing into his car, turning the keys in the ignition, and checking to ensure his wallet had extra cash and his ID as he spoke back to Chase.

"Alright, alright. Where are you?" House asked, hoping that this question would interrupt the sobbing. And it did, though it took a few moments for Chase to grow calm enough to respond with a full sentence.

" _I don't know the name of the hotel, it's wherever the conference is being held. I'm in room three-four-six. It's the third floor, end of the hall."_

"Alright, you better be in some serious shit, because I'm about to drag my ass out to see you. I'm about four hours away, are you going to be alright for that long?" House asked, cushioning his cold remarks and irritancy with a gentle question. He was already pulling out into the street, trying to recall the address for the conference from memory, trying to figure the fastest route to Boston with the highways mapped through his mind.

" _I'll be fine until then, I'll be fine. Thank you, thank you so much_ " Chase choked out in meager response, and House felt ill at just how awful the Aussie sounded. But still he drew in a deep breath, trying to keep his voice even, for Chase's sake.

"I'll be there soon. See you in a bit." With that, the ill feeling still settling in his stomach, House closed the phone and threw it onto the seat beside him. Easing his foot onto the gas pedal, House's mind was growing filled with not just concern, but with curiosity. Chase had never shown weakness, never folded, even under the intense pressure that House constantly placed on him. It was for this reason that House was willing to drive four hours in the dead of night for an employee, and in the end, he could always use curiosity as justification. Never concern. He could never admit to anything even the same hue as concern. It would never, ever be concern.

-H-O-U-S-E-

By the time that House got to Boston, it was incredibly early in the morning, so early that the horizon was becoming tinted with stains of yellow and orange. His eyelids were heavy, but determination fueled his body to stay awake, to keep pushing onwards through this personal crusade. There had been no more calls from Chase through the duration of the trip, the silver phone sitting motionless and silent on the passenger seat, not so much as a text to alert House to Chase's status. Fortunately, due to the time of night, the highways had been all but deserted. With a foot heavy on the gas pedal, House had shaved what could have been forty minutes from the trip estimate he had made initially.

The hotel was not difficult to find, nor was it sleeping, even at a time before the cock would dare to crow. Though a few lone windows of the building glowed with a gentle yellow light, a bright welcoming shine came from beyond the lobby doors. House wasted no time in hurrying through the expansive and ornate entranceway to the elevators, not even taking time to gawk at the décor of such an establishment. He merely jabbed the end of his cane onto the button for the third floor, irritated further by the length of time it took for the doors to slide shut and the metal box to ascend those three stories.

As quickly as he could with his handicap, House limped down the quiet hallway, seeking the number that Chase had whimpered out between tears. True to the intensivist's words, the aforementioned room was at the very end of the hallway. For a moment, House prepared to knock, raising his cane to the door with some suppressed sense of urgency. Yet he stopped just before his knuckles met the wood, as though the anxiety filling his gut had yanked him back. There was an incredible apprehension in his mind as to what might lie beyond that door, just what scene was awaiting him in the rented living space. Perhaps Chase was just drunk, lost and intoxicated, merely overwhelmed by the chemicals polluting his blood. That was a thought that danced at the back of House's mind the entire trip, a sliver of doubt that there was indeed any urgency or true tragedy.

House was able to defend this doubt by the change in character he had incurred to act as he had. It was nothing other than illogical for him to drop everything in the middle of the night and run out to a city hours away for an employee, someone who was supposed to be just an employee, nothing more. He hadn't received an explanation, no hint or clue as to what had plagued the younger man. All it had taken was a pitiful cry for help, and House had surrendered all he had for the intensivist. For a moment, he grumbled over how pathetic it was, and cast his eyes to the ground with the shame.

Only then did he notice the corner of a card peeking out from under the door, almost as though it had been placed there deliberately, just barely within reach of any visitor. Recalling how Chase had excluded any specific mentions of just exactly how House was going to make his way into the room, he assumed that the card that stuck out from beneath the door was a hint to how he would make his entrance.

Despite how painful it was to bend down and get the card, House managed the task shakily, sliding the card all of the way out and picking it up in his hands. Sure enough, it was a room key for the hotel, and it worked on the door to Chase's room with a cheerful beeping. Assuming that Chase had forgone all notions of true privacy when he left his key under the door, House strode in, not bothering to announce himself with more than the slam of a door.

To his surprise, the room was not dark, as he had suspected it would be. Rather it seemed that every light, no matter how small or dim, was on and illuminating the small space. It was incredibly bright, and in the middle of the light-filled room, Chase was sitting on the bed, his eyes looking at House with a combination of shock and fear.

The intensivist was truly a pitiful sight to behold. Chase was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest in a self-pacifying gesture. Although the stereotypical scene would have included the young doctor hugging his legs close, House noted the gap between his legs and his body, where he was gingerly cradling his right arm. Chase's eyes were red and bloodshot, his cheeks moist, hair disheveled. The doctor was still wearing all of his clothes, as though he had just walked out of one of the conference lectures. He was just as he would appear every day, but those clothes were wrinkled and stained with blood, and his face was a painful sight to behold, with purple bruises splotched across the tan skin of his neck and left eye.

The only thing that House could think to compare his employee to at this point was a beaten animal, those wide eyes staring out from behind kennel bars. The hollow look in Chase's eyes, the way his body shivered like a leaf in the breeze, all of them spoke of a victim, a creature so traumatized that only the fractured core was left. House didn't know what to say, didn't know how to react to something so disgusting, so exposed. Thankfully, Chase was able to fill the void with a few hushed words, incredibly broken sounding, and terribly weak.

"You came."

"Of course I came, you moron. You said you needed a doctor. Now what kind of doctor denies people medical help?" House responded out of harsh reflex, too late to stop the words from leaving his mouth. But Chase did no more than flinch at this comment, his lips not even flickering towards a grin at the mention of such cruel irony. Softly, House amended his previous mistake with a few gentle words, which were much harder to force from his lips.

"Now that I dragged my ass over to Boston, you might as well let me know what's wrong, and why you couldn't go to a hospital."

To this inquiry, Chase looked down at his knees, wincing as he pulled his right arm from the hollow space he had created in the curvature of his body. It took a few moments to free the limb from its awkward position, but once he had managed the feat, Chase extended the arm, holding it out for House's inspection. Even from a distance, House could see the dried blood smeared over broken skin, the swelling that had brought the hand to resemble a mangled club, an item that looked like a chunk of raw meat instead of a hand. He had seen gruesome injuries in his time, such terrible contortions that even his iron stomach soured, but he had never imagined such an injury on Chase.

Limping over without a word, he looked at the hand Chase had offered out to him, and resisted the urge to curse colorfully. It was obvious from just a halfhearted glance that the bones of the fingers had been broken into multiple pieces, the skin torn open, and anything else bruised and beaten. The hand was contorted, like flesh out of a bad movie, but this was incredibly real. After a few more moments of close inspection, House had to keep himself from exploding on Chase with a newfound anger, the only emotion he could use to replace the pain and concern, chasing away the darkness.

"Why couldn't you go to a hospital, Chase? What happened?" The diagnostician thundered, trying to reign himself back under control as quickly as he had lost it, not wishing to terrify the intensivist any further, open any more wounds as he went.

"I can't tell you" came the soft reply, as though Chase were no more than a child, a scared and frightened child with no more courage than a mouse. Sighing at the constant denial of the issue's severity, and the continued refusal to discuss just what mess that he had gotten into, House walked towards Chase, trying to get a better look at the hand.

Instead of giving him a better idea of the extent of the damage, House was merely sickened again. The hand was so contorted, so mangled, that all House felt was a sort of urgency. There was no way that Chase could wait any longer to get medical care, some kind of treatment for the injuries that were ravaging him. It was apparent that Chase was near shock, and with bones broken to such a severity, there was always a concern for internal bleeding, even if it were just contained to the hand.

"Listen, we need to get you to a hospital. There are some doctors around here that I know. Now, we might not be on good terms, but they wouldn't be opposed to checking that out. You need some serious help. You're a doctor, you know the risks" House said beneath his breath, allowing Chase to withdraw his hand near his body once more. Though he tried to be gentle, this time, House made no effort to disguise the strength behind his demand for action. He was determined to act in any way he could to make his employee finally get up and accept the medical help that he needed. The intensivist was shaking, trembling as he did so, and House turned away, prepared to limp towards the door once more. "Come on, follow me. Your legs still work, right?"

"House, I can't go. I can't go somewhere else. Just take me back to Princeton-Plainsboro, you can do everything yourself. Hell, I can do some of it. Please, just take me back home" Chase whimpered, pleading with the older doctor once more. This second refusal was enough to make House look over his shoulder, watching Chase look at him with scared eyes. The look was enough to make him feel something, pity, fear for Chase's safety, something small biting into his heart with meek persistence. But it was this same feeling that made him walk back to Chase's bed, his voice cold as stone as he voiced his demand once more.

"You're not going to argue with me. You're coming with me right now. We are going to the nearest hospital. You need help as soon as you can. I can't believe you were stupid enough to wait this long. I don't give a damn what you did, or what happened. You could've been stoned, you could've been drunk, you could've been screwing a bit too rough for all I care. What matters now is getting your sorry ass to a hospital. Now."

At this cold statement Chase cringed back as though he had been struck, his shaking renewed in intensity. It seemed as though something were chaining the young doctor to his bed, holding him to that one spot, not allowing him to leave. But House gave him another cold look, and Chase finally started to unfurl his body, still cradling his right arm to his body with a degree of care and caution, right hand hanging limply.

"Okay" the intensivist whispered as he went, hanging his head low, defeat seizing his body language. House nodded curtly, waiting to watch Chase rise from the bed at a painfully slow pace. It took nearly a minute, Chase gradually moving to the side of the bed, swinging his legs over the edge, and placing his feet gently on the floor. It took a minute for the Aussie to steady himself, holding himself upright for a few moments with the nightstand, before gingerly stepping away from the wrinkled sheets.

To these pathetic motions, House felt pity once more. It was hard for him to feel pity, to feel anything other than disgust for someone suffering. When he himself was always in pain, it was hard to empathize with others who pronounced their pain so loudly, so boldly. But to see Chase struggling, stubborn and angry, all while in incredible pain, it brought him sorrow. It was obvious that the intensivist was trying to swallow the burden of the physical pain, despite how openly he was displaying his emotional turmoil.

Despite how cold he acted, the well-being of his employees meant the world to House. He knew when something was wrong, and it mattered to him. Most importantly because their happiness affected how well they worked, but also because some part of him cared. To watch the young employee struggle as he was, it made something deep inside of House ache, a deep bond growing stretched as such agony.

Just as he was about to turn away and let Chase ahead of him and out the door, he noticed something amongst the rumpled sheets that Chase had been sitting on. It was easy to see the color contrast against the whiteness of the fabric, the bright crimson screaming out against banks of snow. This colorful display was enough to make House stop cold, realizing in an instant that something was terribly wrong, more so than he had been able to deduce from the visible injuries. Hobbling over to the bed, House tried to take a closer look at the blood, but Chase called out with renewed strength.

"House, you wanted to leave, right?"

"What's this blood from?" House asked, staring at the startling large stain that was spread out across the sheets, not completely dried. Dread was rising in his gut at the inspection of the color, too distinct of a hue to be arterial, and not quite dry enough to have come from the mangled hand. Chase was quick to respond to this inquiry, seemingly excited now to work his way towards the door. Yet Chase was not able to distinguish as House was- the sudden change in demeanor was a red flag for another issue, one the intensivist must have been harboring closely. Chase replied then, sounding just as annoyed as he demonstrated regularly in the hospital.

"It's from my hand, don't worry about it" the doctor whined, shuffling a few steps closer to the door as he spoke. "You wanted to go, I'm going. It's hard to stand."

"No it's not" House retorted immediately, looking back to where Chase was standing, and at the blood on his hand. "The blood on your shirt is from your hand, the blood on your pillows is because of your hand. This blood is where you were sitting. Now what's that from?" he asked again, but as Chase tried to quickly turn away, House already had his answer.

There was a stain across the back of Chase's pants, though the color wasn't definitive against the dark color of Chase's pants, but it didn't take a detective to figure out what it was. House's heart immediately dropped to his feet, an explanation no longer needed as the world came crashing down upon him with a weight unparalleled. He had seen similar things in the clinic, from his many years practicing medicine. Everything suddenly made sense. Chase's distress, the reluctance, the privacy, all of it came together, along with the physical injury.

It was only in certain cases that he had seen that hollow look in the eyes of the victims, of that hopelessness, the fear and the defensiveness. That need to protect their body, their core and their heart, no matter what other part of them had been beaten. Now as he looked at Chase, he saw the bruises across his neck more clearly, illuminated by the light streaming from the bathroom. Distinct fingerprints encircled Chase's neck, marks of brute force, and this melted the other bruises into cruelness. Between the blood, the marks, the hand, and the stench of fear filling the room, House had his conclusion, however dark it was.

"Chase" House whispered beneath his breath with as much caution as he could bear, but the blonde was already turning away, wiping at his eyes with his left hand in an attempt to hide his face.

"Don't, House. Don't say a word. I'm begging you, please" Chase pleaded, but House couldn't leave it alone, and there was no way that he could stop the words from leaving his mouth. He brought the pain to exposure as he stared at Chase's watering eyes, their lifeless pupils still focused at the floor. The words filled the room like a gunshot, however quietly they were uttered.

"You were raped, weren't you?"

 **Thank you all so much for reading! The support I have received on this story has been tremendous. The kind and sincere reviews absolutely illuminate my each and every day. I appreciate each follow, favorite, and review on this story with all of my heart. I hope to bring you more chapters soon! Thanks so much for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5

"How bad?" House demanded, cutting the doctor off before he could revert to denial and defense. There had been crime, there had been pain, and House hated the feeling of his legs growing weak at such a revelation. Worse yet was the condition of his employee. Chase's whole body was wavering, and the room in the air grew thick. The stench of fear was overwhelming, but still House stared at Chase, who still seemed unable to raise his head. It was obvious the humiliation and shame that had come over the young doctor, but House couldn't get the questions out of his mind. He prompted again, trying to get Chase to speak, to say a single word of truth or admittance.

"How bad is it, Chase? How bad are you hurt?" House asked, sparing all but the most basic softness to his tone. To this inquiry, though Chase was still looking away, a soft breath left his mouth, a precursor to words. And when he finally did speak, he did so just as gently, his words carrying the impact of feathers drifting lazily on a breeze.

"There wasn't this much blood the first time. There's a lot of blood tonight, there's a lot of blood. It's not stopping, it should really have stopped by now. It was bad. House it- it hurts. It hurts so bad." With these words of reluctant acceptance, it was clear to see that Chase had regressed even further from composure, his words falling from his lips as though they were a child's cries. But at the same time, they were filled with so much pain, a complex understanding of his broken conscience.

House did not fail to miss the subtle implication in Chase's confession. It was the second night of the conference, and from hints in Chase's verbiage, the second time that such a horror had occurred. Rage was boiling inside of the diagnostician's gut, the thought that someone could commit such an act, and to a man as innocent as Chase. Not merely one violation of the body and mind, but two, two crimes against such a man. Chase was hard-working, he was charming, and he was clever. Yet such a man could be the one to fall victim to such agony, just as easily as the weak and defenseless. There was anger and pain filling House, but he forced himself to suppress such selfish thoughts, and focus on Chase's suffering instead of his own misgivings.

"We still need to get you to a hospital, Chase. If you're as seriously injured as you look, I don't think that we should go risk the four hour trip back. I know that we need to get to work on that hand and the bleeding as soon as possible."

"Please, House. No one else can know this happened. I couldn't, I couldn't live with myself. I don't think I can as it is" the intensivist murmured, looking up at House for the first time since his confession, eyes moist once more. The sound of defeat made House's heart burn in pity, and it seemed the utter hollowness that he saw in Chase's darkened pupils had the strength to swallow stars.

"Fine" House relented, desperate to gain any sort of compliance and move forward from this place. Chase needed the medical attention, and as quickly as could possibly be provided. There was no time to waste with any more tears or hesitance, at the risk of a life. Swallowing back the disgust he felt at the thought of anyone harming another man so terribly, he moved towards Chase, reaching out his hand to guide the blond to the door.

At soon as he weathered fingers even brushed upon Chase's back, the younger man flinched forward, his head whipping around to stare at House with wide, startled eyes. It was that very instant that House recognized his grave mistake and withdrew his hand, wounded by the adverse reaction. He mentally reprimanded himself, realizing just how carefully he would be required to tread with this new case, and how he would have to adjust his interactions with Chase. He may have been wounded, but his injuries were not merely physical.

It also seemed to House that Chase realized his own reaction to the touch, and the intensivist's cheeks blushed hot with embarrassment amongst the liquid sorrow. "Sorry" Chase whispered beneath his breath, looking away again, obviously trying to relax ever so slightly in House's presence. House only shook his head, moving past Chase to get the door, an unspoken apology for his insensitivity.

"Just focus on getting down to my car, alright? We'll go to Princeton-Plainsboro, and I'll make sure no one else gets involved" House offered as a few kind words, trying to ease the tension just long enough to get Chase settled. House would have paused there had he possessed any more decency, but he added a question, one that had been burning in the back of his mind relentlessly. "Would you mind doing me a favor before we leave?"

"What's that?" Chase questioned, seemingly ready to comply with whatever House had to offer at this point, too meek to contest. Yet he still flinched back when House dropped the next bomb, a question that carried with it the weight of the world.

"Who did this to you?"

The question was met with silence, and Chase staring at the ground as intently as though it held the answers. Silence. It seemed that it would be a common theme of the evening, and coming days, but House bore it as graciously as he could until Chase gave a reply.

"I'm sorry House, I can't tell you. I'll be fine. I just- just can't let you know. Let's go, alright? It's getting hard to stand."

"That's not an excuse" House snarled, voice filled with the rage that had been making his blood run hot. "This isn't fine. You're not fine. And I don't give a damn if you're embarrassed about this or not. Whoever did this needs to pay. Who did this? Who?"

"I can't!" Chase cried, shaking his head in protest, flinching back as though he were about to be struck. "I can't tell you."

"What do you have to hide? I know what happened to you, I know that you're pretty fucked up right now, but we can take care of that. But what really needs to be taken care of is the bastard that did this. Stop trying to protect him" House spat while swinging his cane into the wall. The sound of the wood smashing up against the wall was incredibly loud, and Chase closed his eyes, diamond tears spilling from the corners.

"It doesn't matter, House. It doesn't matter. I can't tell you." As weak as Chase's voice was, House's anger had taken him over. The words tore themselves from his mouth with the strength of a roar.

"Why are you trying to protect him? If we put him away, the bastard won't touch you or anyone else again. Just give me a name, Chase. Point me in the right direction here."

"No!" Chase protested, his eyes still shut as he shook his head back and forth, head bowed ever so slightly. "I can't tell you. I can't. Please, House, don't. You've done enough. You don't need to worry about him."

"Don't tell me what I need or don't need" House growled beneath his breath, taking another few steps closer to Chase, bringing himself nearly nose to nose with the Aussie. "If you don't want to put this guy behind bars, you're a bit more messed up that I first thought"

"It's not that" Chase whimpered, taking a step back to draw himself away from the older doctor by just a few inches. "I just don't want this to keep happening. I don't want to think of his face again. I can't bear to see it again. I've had plenty of time to think and I know what I want. I don't want to sit in court and have to tell strangers what he did to me. I don't want him to know what he's done to me. I can't let him break me any further. So I'm not going to let you know his name. I'm never going to say it again. I can't tell you, I just can't."

To this, House couldn't come up with an angry reply. Everything that Chase had said made perfect sense, an incredible amount of sense. And suddenly, he felt something that he rarely felt- regret. Although it had initially made sense for him to push the young man to reveal his assailant, now that Chase had explained his reasons, however meekly he had done so, House finally saw the other side of the issue. And to the realization of his own insensitivity, displayed so aggressively once again, he softened and stepped back.

"I'm…" he started, but couldn't force the rest of the phrase out. Instead, he substituted it with a different sort of amendment, less admissible to his own faults. "I guess I didn't think of that. But we might as well not spend any more time arguing. Let's get back to the hospital. Come on, get going."

Chase hung his head low, and finally opened his eyes ever so slightly, then staggered forward. His shoulders shook, but House said not another word as he followed his employee out of the door. Though the hand was his very first concern, following his other injuries, House realized that what Chase had been describing was only the tip of the iceberg. There was a long, emotional, and agonizing struggle ahead. Tonight was just the beginning.

-H-O-U-S-E-

The drive back to the hospital was filled with silence, which House didn't bother to try and break with meaningless chatter. Even as the tires burned across the highway with incredible speed, Chase didn't budge from his statue-like composure. He just held his hand close to his chest, whimpering in pain every so often, like the whine of an instrument left un-tuned. House didn't try to comfort him, or say any kind words to ease the pain. He wasn't sure that he could have come up with any kind words, much less say them with any conviction. And there was always the fact that if he did manage such a feat, there was a high chance they would have little effect on a man already so far gone.

Through the duration of the drive, House still kept an eye on his employee, just glances to the side. Even though the young man must have been up for more than a day, not once did his chin hit his chest as he sought out the respite of sleep. Instead he just trembled, whined, and groaned softly as he managed the pain in the only way he knew how, in as much solitude as a car allowed. It was near to driving House out of his mind, but for once he swallowed his ego and pushed aside the urge to make himself more comfortable, to silence the incessant whining. There was nothing that he could do for the man except spare him a bit of dignity, however little much the blond had left.

Chase's life had been torn apart last night, and he had been given wounds that would never heal. House knew that Chase would never be able to truly recover from what had been done to him, and especially not the very morning after the fact. The wounds that plagued the intensivist's hand would be just as much of a problem as it healed, with both the time and the pain that accompanied such a process.

His thoughts on the future were interrupted as they drove into the city limits, and Chase finally spoke up, softly, not bothering to make eye contact.

"House, you can't let anyone else know. I can't have anyone see me like this" he rasped, and House only shook his head to the comment, rolling his eyes passively. His heart had returned to ice for the time being, though the lights to the city were growing ever warmer as they went.

"Listen, I'll do the best I can, but you're going to have to deal with your choice now. You wanted to come back here. This is where everyone knows you, there's not a nurse in there that doesn't know your face, or some other part of you, depending on who she is. If you don't want to be seen, you'll have to get creative. You can't have a room, you can't have too many procedures done, and you can't have any surgery. And you need all of that. You're going to get found out, whether it's tonight, tomorrow, or next week. You can't hide forever."

This seemed to startle Chase again, for the trembling that had become intermittent returned with full intensity. Groaning internally at the mess that he had inadvertently created, House tried his best to make the quickest remedy.

"Listen, they don't have to know exactly what happened. We can make something up. Everybody lies, Chase. You're not exempt from that. You can say you got in a fight. In an accident. No one's going to doubt you, because well, you're you. The other stuff, you can leave that to me, or to yourself. No one else has to know. I won't include it in your file, or do anything outside of the basic medical necessities to deal with the _other_ problems. That is, unless you want to have a kit done…"

"No" Chase protested firmly as House trailed off, shaking his head vigorously before softening once more. "But thank you for this. I know it's not easy for you-"

"Don't tell me what it is or isn't for me. Don't put words in my mouth or make more out of it than you need to. Now if you don't want to get noticed all that much, try and get yourself together a little. We'll go in through Wilson's office door, and get you a bed for the day. Hopefully we can get an x-ray and an MRI before lunch. If there's any breaks, I can set them, but if you need extensive reconstructive surgery, we're going to have to find someone else. Unless you really want me to give it a whirl, you're best of getting a real surgeon" House explained, pulling down familiar streets as they weaved their way towards the hospital. He knew that the following day would be a flurry of activity, and a mess at that. The other members of the team weren't utterly ignorant, and they would know that something more serious than just a damaged hand was ailing their colleague.

Cameron would be the first one to know, and she would ask Chase if he was okay until he was in fits over his own denial. Foreman would go forth with his own tried-and-true method of investigation, and do his best to find all of the medical files that were available. Eventually they would move on to pester Chase together, exploding with a storm of words and question, all in vain. Chase would be absent from work while his initial injuries healed, and would spend days in the hospital for close care.

House knew that he had one priority upon his return to the hospital following the initial examination of the hand; he had to find a way to convince the younger doctor that a more extensive examination was necessary to bring him back to full health. More importantly, House wanted to see the severity of the physical damage that the rape had caused, out of fear for Chase's well-being.

Of course, there was the psychological aspect that would act as an illness of its own for days, months, potentially even years to come. That area of health had never been House's expertise, and the thought of helping someone so close to him through a trauma was absolutely gut-wrenching. He had been nauseated enough over the past five hours, and he knew that Chase's wounds would not heal in an overnight stay at the hospital. It would take time and patience, the latter of which House always had a hard time providing.

Yet at the same time, he was willing to put in that time, put in that effort. House knew that he had driven all the way up to Boston for a reason, and it wasn't solely curiosity, although he would never admit it. The moment he had climbed into his car he had surrendered to the undeniable care that he had for the Aussie, and there was no giving up now. The young man was more than just broken and pitiful; the pain he was carrying had the strength of a gale. The force of this experience, the drive, the confrontation, all had caused House to feel just the slightest pangs of empathy, the first in a very long time.

This caused a lump to form in his throat, and House took his eyes off the road for just a moment, trying to swallow it down. Thankfully, they were a mere minute away from the hospital, and House had only a few more seconds to bear alone with the broken man, just that long to bear with the crushing weight of emotion. At the same time, those mere minutes would take just as long as an eternity.

They pulled into the hospital, which was of course, just as busy as ever. The lights of an ambulance bounced off the bricks, and a few people were staggering towards the ER through the bustling lot. A hospital was always incredibly alive, though filled with both pain and suffering and death. Fortunately, it was those very distractions that would allow House and Chase to enter relatively unnoticed. As House claimed the parking spot that he used, he gave Chase a hard stare, which was unfortunately intended to ease the man's fears.

"Listen, Cameron and Foreman aren't in yet. Wilson will be, which is how we're going to get in. Just tell him you were in an accident, and that you're fine. If you can't manage that, I'll tell him. Then we'll get you set up in a room, alright? C'mon, let's go. I do have a job, y'know"

Chase moved with every reluctance imaginable. Of course, House figured that this was in part due to the horrendous injuries, and the accompanying pain. Each motion took incredible effort and agony, quite apparent in the way that Chase was carrying himself. Even standing freely in the parking lot, his shoulders were hunched, his eyes darting from side to side as though he were about to be struck at any moment. And he was still shaking, like a beaten dog, his skin puckered with gooseflesh. House's stomach churned at the sight, but he pushed by it, knowing that he could only maintain his composure if he returned to his usual demeanor, cold and indifferent as ever.

"Wilson isn't going to wait forever. He's just getting to his office, and if we catch him in the next few minutes, we'll be in without a problem. Come on, just walk. You've been fine for this long, you'll be fine for another five minute walk. Let's go" House grunted, starting off in the direction of the side of the building, where he would have access to both his own office and Wilson's.

Fortunately, this tactic seemed to be an effective motivator, and Chase staggered forward, holding his right hand up against his chest as gingerly as he could manage. House knew that each and every footstep that Chase took was painful, from both the beating and from the other grievances that had been forced upon his body. Though he himself could not imagine it, House knew that the pain had to be immense, a reminder of what had happened with each step, each shifting of weight.

Though the process was long, and painful for both in the couple, they managed to avoid any stray glances as they made their way over the grounds and towards the offices. Chase kept looking behind him every few steps, and House bit back the cruel comments regarding the obvious paranoia. It was merely reflex to what he himself was feeling, the need to lash out, so somehow prove his superiority. Yet it was today of all days that he was able to possess such a degree of self-control that the impulses were suppressed for the time being.

The control vanished as he reached Wilson's office, and he bashed his cane up against the glass with a fair amount of strength, knowing that the sound would prompt the oncologist to come to the door. Without fail, he received the response that he had been hoping for, the very response he always got from his friend. The drawn curtains were torn open with white-knuckled hands, and Wilson's face followed, twisted into a scowl. House pulled on his best sarcastic smile, continuing to hit his cane hard across the glass until Wilson relented, opening the door just enough that he could speak clearly.

"House, what are you doing here? You're never here this early. And why're you dragging Chase with you this time? Dammit, did you break into someone else's house…" but then the man trailed off, his dark brown eyes growing wide with concern as he glanced Chase over, obviously noticing the wrinkled clothes, and most importantly, the damaged hand. The air of frustration dropped, replace with a deafening seriousness.

"My God, Chase, what happened?" Wilson muttered, opening the door completely and stepping aside to usher two doctors into the warm office. As an act of pure kindness, House decided to answer for his employee, just for the sake of sparing Chase the additional strain in an already stressful situation.

"Dumbass managed to get into a fight with some guy at a bar. Wouldn't want Cuddy to find out that one of her best surgeons risked his career over a little alcohol, right? So we're going to get him fixed up and back to work with a nice little story about his hand to appease those evil spirits. For now we need to get ourselves to radiology, and then I need to get to work. And by work, I mean I hope you're out of your office by then, so I can get a nap."

Successfully diverting the attention away from the intensivist and onto himself with the final comment, House felt some satisfaction as Wilson sighed and threw his hands up into the air, obviously exasperated.

"Why do I even try to stop you? Fine, House, and by the way you put that, I assume you want me to get you a space with the X-ray and the MRI, because I know you won't do it yourself. Fine. You get Chase set up upstairs and I'll put you in as soon as I can get a spot. I'll push you guys to top priority, and I'll exclude his name from the schedule so Cuddy doesn't find out."

After a nod of thanks to Wilson for the understanding and discretion, House motioned for Chase to leave first, and the younger man did so reluctantly. All the while, House could feel Wilson's eyes boring into the back of his skull with burning intensity. To avoid what he knew was coming, House tried to follow as closely after Chase as he could, but that didn't stop his best friend from grabbing the back of his jacket and holding him tight, even as Chase carried on.

Instead of making a sharp and acerbic remark, House turned to the oncologist, who was giving him a harsh and judgmental glare. With narrowed eyes, Wilson spoke with a tone of neither anger or disgust, but of frightening neutrality.

"I know that's not the whole story, House. Something else happened. The kid looks like he just witnessed a murder, for god's sake. So whatever you're going to do to fix him, do it. That's the only reason I'm going to get the two rooms scheduled for you. I'm doing it for him, not for you. And all that I need you to do in return this time is to make him better. And change the story from what you just tried to feed me. I want him to get better and to keep his job."

House nodded, for once, unable to argue with his friend. He had lost the energy and the will, and to something so obvious, there was no use in denial. Though he normally would argue, instead of providing immediate compliance, he couldn't manage to contest Wilson's words. Instead he just turned away and followed Chase out into the hall, pondering if he would really be able to hide the truth.

-H-O-U-S-E-

House was clutching the other films in his hand, but he already knew he didn't need them. The ones on the display were enough to make him want to vomit. The bright white scattered through the blackness told him the truth, the full weight of the most horrendous truth. The words left his mouth quietly, but they were more of a lament than a true cry.

"No, no, no. Goddammit Chase, this can't be it. No, dammit, this can't be it, because this is the goddamn end. I can't let this be you, I just can't."

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I appreciate each and every follower, favorite, and review. Your kind words mean the world to me! It's incredible to be getting so much support. I hope you enjoy, and I hope to be posting again soon!**


	6. Chapter 6

House stood outside of the room, unable to block out the coughing sounds that resonated from within the closed walls. The hospital was anything but silent on the best of days, and a general room that housed so many patients was usually one of the worst offenders for noise pollution. Such a room was the place where House had elected best to keep Chase for the time-being. The general admission, low budget ward, one of the places that the intensivist frequented least often, where it was likely he knew the least amount of people. Though the Aussie was generally well-known around the hospital, as just one of five patients in a room, just another face behind a curtain, it was unlikely that a nurse would do more than glance at his chart and monitors before moving on.

The films that House had been holding a few minutes earlier were now stashed away in his office, hidden beneath towering mounds of paper that neither Cameron nor Foreman would dare to touch if they valued their lives. Convinced of the relative safety of his selected hiding location, House had gone down as soon as he could to visit his newest patient and employee. Though he usually did so with a light heart, he had walked slowly, wishing more than anything not to be the bearer of bad news.

When he had first seen the images on the black film, his stomach had flipped into a tight knot, and the room had spun around him. As a diagnostician, the physical deformations of his patients were usually very limited, the minute internal workings of the body doing most of the trauma. To see physical damage to such an extent had been absolutely gut-wrenching, and at the same time, terrifying when the future was considered. Chase was at the start of a very long road to recovery, but the most horrifying thought was still whispering in the back of House's mind, a thought that was blacker than night.

Pushing the intrusive thought down with all of his strength, House threw the door to the room open and walked in as confidently as he could, ignoring the moaning and groaning coming from the beds that he passed. This was not a place that he frequented, as his cases reached a much higher caliber than mere surgical procedures and ordinary ailments. He had no words for the patients that stayed in these rooms, and had never a reason to so much as walk through, before today. Once he reached the far wall, he stepped behind the baby-blue curtain, and stared down at the familiar face.

It appeared that Chase was somewhere close to bliss now, his eyes shut, not so much as a crease of worry wrinkling his smooth skin. A morphine drip was attached with a piece of tape to his inner arm, feeding the numbing drug directly into his veins. The gentle rising and falling of the intensivist's chest was incredibly deceitful of the pain that he had suffered. The bruises upon his face and neck told another story, a much more gruesome and awful tale than the closed eyelids and peaceful sleep, the purple serving as garish blemishes on a portrait.

The thought of taking the drug away from Chase brought on the notion of both abuse and cruelty. House, of all people, knew just the respite from reality that drugs could bring, the peace that they could deliver to both mind and body. That was what Chase needed more than anything- a way to escape his world and his memories and his pain. But the reality was weightier than House had originally imagined, the physical damage that the talented surgeon bore amounting to more than just a few broken bones. The severity of the issue was the only factor that made House finally settling on the most painful of the options he was faced with.

Walking over to Chase, House stopped the flow of morphine into Chase's arm with a simple flick of a switch, and took a step back from the bed. It took a few moments, but within seconds of the drug being stopped, Chase's eyelids were flickering open. A minute later the intensivist had regained most of his senses, and was looking at House with an air of discontent, as though he personally blamed the older doctor for the pain that was returning, most surely sparking all throughout his body and damaged nerve endings.

"What is it, House? How bad is it? Which of my fingers are broken?" The younger of the two muttered softly, already eager to get down to business, although he was still shaking the sleep from his eyes. That was always how the intensivist was, and even bruised and beaten, he stayed true to his eager nature. However, now that the deed was done, and the pain was returned, House figured it best to waste no time with small talk or shortcuts. Taking the extra step to the bed to close the distance, House looked down at Chase with an intent glare, trying to hide his own pity for the man.

"It's more serious than that, Chase. In another few minutes you're going to get up, and we're going to walk out to my car. I'm going to drive you to Princeton General and check you in there. You have an appointment with Dr. Costello at eight tomorrow morning, and your first surgery scheduled for ten. The second surgery will be taking place just after noon. The recovery time in the hospital will take anywhere from three days to a week, and the expected time after that will fluctuate depending on the success of the surgery. I'll get you a wheelchair if you need one, but if not, let's get moving, they already have a bed set aside for you."

It was no surprise that his words were met with a blank stare and glassy eyes; there had been nothing pleasant about what he had just said. Though he had wished the delivery to be a bit less harsh, there was nothing House could do to lessen the impact and strain that came with the delivery of bad news. Part of him wished that Chase had still been drugged when he delivered the proposition, and that the intensivist would merely comply without protest. But it was clear that Chase would not go quietly, as House's words were met with a stone wall of defiance as soon as the young man had his wits about him.

"What are you talking about? I thought we agreed I'm staying here, and no one but you is going to do anything. You can set broken bones, and I can still give myself stitches if I need to. There's no reason I have to get out of this bed or see any other doctor. We don't need to take this anywhere else" Chase retorted, his eyes narrowing in House's direction as he displayed his frustration.

House grit his teeth, doing his best to withhold the full rage behind the secret he was holding deep within his mind. Still keeping his voice low, but not bothering to hide his irritation, he replied to Chase's statement curtly. "You know that I'm a good doctor, and that I like to try and keep my word when I can. But this is worse than you think it is, Chase. It's a lot worse. So I got you an appointment with the best damned hand surgeon in the next three states, and we're just lucky he's close by."

Chase tilted his head to this, seemingly incredulous to what House was saying. The look of confusion was so deep it was as though the words transcended Chase's current reality. Then the blond shook his head again, still expressing a vehement denial to what House was trying to explain.

"There's nothing that bad. Stop fucking around, House. Show me my results, and since I'm the surgeon here, I'll let you know what I need. No need to go dragging a hand surgeon in on a few clean breaks" he growled. With the knowledge that he held, House wasn't going to let himself be beaten by such a feeble and baseless argument. The results of the tests were ingrained in his mind as clearly as a brand, the horrifying images that he had seen on the films clinging to him like leeches. This fueled him to argue with renewed intensity, not for his own sake, but for the sake of the man that was wasting away in futile pain.

"You need to listen to me. I'm not an idiot, contrary to what you believe. And I don't want you to see what I saw until it's fixed. You just need to trust me" House insisted, gravel biting into his tone. Though the words had been genuine, it seemed that Chase would have no more of the argument, and it was as though anger drove him to reply blindly.

"If you won't show me my damned results, why won't tell me what surgery I'm getting? What are they going in there to repair? How long will I be out? What's the recovery time? Screws? Plates? Stitches? I'm not an idiot either, and you can't make me consent to a surgery that I know nothing about, a surgery I don't even think I need" Chase spit, voice rising in pitch as he carried forward in his personal crusade. In return, the heartbeat on the monitor was steadily climbing, something that House had not been ignorant to over the course of the interaction.

At this point, it was clear that little more than sedatives would calm the intensivist. The distress and fear had been rising since House walked past that curtain and dragged Chase from his drug-induced peace. Yet truth was more important than the pain and fear that Chase was feeling. Of all the things that House could do, the one thing he could not do was deny Chase the truth, or the severity of his situation. Swallowing, House studied Chase's face with careful eyes, maintaining eye contact as he quietly admitted what he had earlier withheld.

"It's reconstructive hand surgery. There was damage to not only the bones, but the nerves, tendons, and ligaments that run through your hand and wrist. I know it's the last thing you want to do, but even if you tried, you couldn't possibly move three of your fingers right now. They don't know how long you'll be under for, because they suspect that the damage may be more severe than the MRI showed. Once I sent Dr. Costello the results, he cleared his schedule and set up a slot for surgery. Most people have to wait a year or more to see him, and that's if they're lucky. That's how bad this is. So just stop arguing with me and sit up, and we'll get to the car. You'll get back on morphine as soon as we get there."

Now House could see the reaction to this news, the news that he wished he had never had to deliver. Chase was staring at him with saucer-wide eyes, ones that glittered with both horror and disbelief. His jaw was slack, and he made no effort to close it as he fought to find words in response. House only looked away briefly, eyes dancing over his cane until Chase responded meekly.

"Reconstruction? You do know that's not a word we like to toss around lightly, right? That's serious. You said I have two surgeries scheduled. Are they both for my hand? Why aren't they doing it in one? I also want to see those films, House, I want to see my hand." Chase's voice was shaking ever so slightly, a noticeable tremor to the words that slipped past his lips, as though disbelief had stolen away his breath.

Resisting the urge to groan in frustration, House replied as evenly as he could, wishing to do anything but be the bringer of additional pain. "I know that, Chase, which is why I said it. You need nothing less than a full reconstruction. The first surgery is to repair any damage from your other trauma, because the bleeding is still occurring intermittently. I don't want you to get any infections or other illnesses because you thought it in your best interest to let severe tissue tears heal on their own." House knew that there was no way to admit to this lightly, and if he were a weaker man, he would have balked from Chase's fiery gaze. There were daggers coming from Chase's eyes, a clear line of defense to the sparkling fear that held Chase in thrall. Instead of allowing a weak and inane reply, House continued fluidly, glossing over his own misgivings.

"Don't think about it too much. No one there knows you, and the ones that know me won't exactly be hanging around to chat. You'll be practically anonymous, unless you have any surgeon buddies that I don't know about. We'll also be stopping at the bank on the way there. We can pay off the doctors in cash so they won't include some of the more sensitive details in their charts. But I'm serious, just get up. We need to get over there and get you checked in as soon as possible. You want more morphine, right? It's all starting to hurt again, isn't it? Well, as soon as we get, I'll give you what you want" House said with a grimace, giving a nod to Chase's hand as he finished.

Chase gave a somewhat forlorn look down at his own hand, which House knew was probably screaming in agony by now. The young doctor would probably give many sacrifices for some more medication, which was exactly why House made the tantalizing offer. Even at the threat of going to another hospital, numbing the pain was an offer that Chase would be unable to refuse. Luckily for the intensivist, morphine muddled the mind along with extinguishing pain, providing an escape from both physical and emotional wounds.

"Fine" Chase whispered beneath his breath after a few moments of contemplation, voice cracking as he forced the word out. House gave a wry grin at this, and fished a bag out of his pocket, holding the plastic tightly between his fingers. Getting Chase to admit to the surgery and the other hospital was only the first step of the battle he was about to begin fighting, but a battle he knew had to be fought at some point or another.

"Chase" he started warily, keeping the contents of the bag hidden in his fist, away from Chase's prying eyes. "I know that you're going to object, but we need to do this. Otherwise I'll have you admitted to this hospital officially, on the record. I'll put you in your own room and have surgeons here take care of your hand. We're going to bag the clothes you're wearing and swab for DNA. I won't submit anything officially unless you eventually request it. But we need this evidence."

"No" he objected immediately, pressing himself back into the hospital bed as though it would absorb him, take him away from these horrors. "I told you I don't want a kit done, and I told you why. You aren't about to do that to me. No, House. No." It was obvious that Chase was fearful, held totally captive by the fear of admittance to what had happened to him. But House was still just as determined, giving no consideration to Chase's anxiety. It only stood as an obstacle to his plan of action, so he carried on, just as bluntly as he did with most of his patients.

"Technically, since I'm not a registered nurse, and I don't have all the proper supplies, this isn't a kit at all. But it'll constitute as evidence in any court that you might want to take this to. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but at some point you're going to want to make whoever did this pay" House retorted, revealing the swabs and vials that were enclosed in his fist. Chase was still obviously opposed, his face turned ashen as they were shown to him.

"What?" House asked coolly, grabbing the rolling stool from beside the bed and sitting on it, hooking his cane on the bedside table. "Would you rather Cameron do this? She's already seen that much of you, right?" The comment made Chase flinch back, and House immediately wished that he could retract the scalding and insensitive comment.

"Listen" he started, hastily trying to brush over his previous statement, "just let me run the damn swabs. It won't hurt you any more than you already have been. We'll need this if you want him convicted sometime in the future."

Yet before House could even take the swab out of its vial, Chase was writhing away, staring at House with a high degree of disdain. "Yeah, nothing else other than my dignity" he spit, still trying to put as much distance between himself and House as possible.

Sighing, realizing that he had no other option left, House dug back into his pocket for the syringe that was stashed there. Chase only realized it too late, far too late to make any substantial effort to get away. He was too hurt, too stunned, too overwhelmed to do more than open his mouth and turn his body away. Yet House was a bit more tactful than that, reaching for the plastic tubing that hung by the side of the bed instead of subjecting Chase to any additional dehumanization. The needle went into the IV line and House depressed the plunger, sending the sedative through Chase's veins instantaneously. For a few moments the blond cursed as his eyelids slid shut, but then he was rendered immobile, and fell back lifeless on the pillow without another word.

House would have muttered an apology, but he felt no sorrow or burning regret over his actions. He knew what he had done and was about to do was right, and had no moral quarrels with himself over it. In fact, he regarded what he had done as an act of mercy. Once more he had removed the pain from Chase's body, by pushing him, even unwillingly, into artificial sleep. It was one way to find peace, however unorthodox.

So, feeling no remorse, House said nothing else to a man that wouldn't even hear him. He merely sat back down on the stool and began to uncap the vials again, humming a song to himself as he began to work over the motionless body of his youngest employee.

-H-O-U-S-E-

"I want you to remember that I'm not doing this as any sort of favor to you" the man growled, staring down at the films with something that mirrored utter disgust. "Hell, I don't even know why I'm doing it" he muttered.

"It's because you have a kid in there with a hand that looks like it got stuck in a blender" House retorted in his usual fashion, rolling his eyes as he did so. The other doctor finally looked up, seemingly forgetting the films on the table.

"I know it's another surgeon, and I know he needs this hand. But I'm about to sit down and do a surgery that will last half a day just to try and fix what I already know is basically irreparable. He'll be lucky if he can move his fingers again. This will be purely cosmetic for him, if everything goes as well as I'm planning. I'm a surgeon, not a miracle worker."

"You surgeons all think you're miracle workers, dumbass. It comes with the title, doesn't it? Not God's gift to mankind, because with someone's heart in your hands, you're just as good as any god could ever be" House bit back, staring at Dr. Costello with fire in his eyes. To hear such a dismissive tone regarding his injured employee was like acid being poured over an open wound, fueling House's usual fire to an even higher degree. "I didn't just pick anyone. I picked you. Now I know you might not like me, and sure as hell I don't like you, but you're the best damn hand surgeon in the next five states. You're doing this for a kid that still has peach fuzz on his chin, who wants to be some big name doctor like you one day. He can't do that if he can't hold a damn fork, and if anyone could fix him now, it'd be you."

Silence spanned the space, and Dr. Costello seemed as though he were biting back an even more vicious reply to House's acerbic remarks. Normally, House would have been eager to have the heated argument, not just with Costello, but with any other person that got in his path. But today, with the extent of the damage laying on the table between them, fun and games were the last thing on his mind. As Costello's face relaxed, it seemed that House's tactic of mildly inflating his ego was taking effect just as well as he predicted. It needed to do little more than relax him for the time being, and ease him over the hate he felt for House.

"Alright" Costello said finally, running a hand through his hair as though it would take away the indecisiveness in his mind. "Alright. I cleared my schedule for him, I might as well go through with it. But like I said, I can't promise I'll fix him. I'll do my damned best though, I'll do whatever I can for this kid."

House swallowed, feeling a word at the tip of his tongue that was so uncharacteristic it was as bitter as bile. He swallowed it down before he could utter it, turning to leave without another word. He was satisfied with Costello's promise, and for the time being, required nothing more of him. Just a few steps later he was almost out of the office, the cane having already cleared the threshold, when an urge came over him. Before he could bite it back again, he turned over his shoulder, and looked the surgeon in the eye.

"Thanks" he said softly, but gave the man no chance to reply once he realized how far out of character he had fallen. House turned towards the hall and hurried away, making his way towards the new admittance ward.

-H-O-U-S-E-

According to House's watch, Chase would most likely be coming off the sedatives within the next half hour. He hoped that his estimate would be accurate, for he was tiring of merely sitting at the bedside, letting the minutes tick by at a crawl. It was brutal and agonizing, even as his mind worked at full speed to fill the white noise of beeping machines. There were a few minutes were he let his fingers dance awkwardly along his thigh, tapping out the melody to a gentle song that he hummed beneath his breath, but these moments were few and far in between. Normally he would have gone for the more obnoxious option, with the full-blown air guitar, but he was sobered by the circumstances of his current situation.

The swabs that he had taken earlier in the day, and Chase's clothes along with them, were sealed tightly in a plastic bag and stored in his locker. Normally, he had forgone all use of this storage space, but he had finally found some use for it. He was convinced of the security of such a stronghold, and thought that it was an artistically appropriate place to store the tremendous burden. Dark, abandoned, and most often forgotten or ignored outright. Similarly, Chase would dodge the weight that he was now forced to carry, feeling similar characteristics as he tried desperately to heal.

House only hoped that Chase would eventually decide to pursue the crime with a criminal case against his offender. Though House was no psychologist, he figured a conviction would allow Chase to most likely receive some sort of monetary compensation for the physical grievances, and emotional closure understanding that justice was served against a terrible man. There would be few chances, one or two at best, for Chase to find some sort of peace and erase his pain.

Not just the physical pain, but the pain that would come with any bills or complications arising from injuries and trauma. The pain of humiliation, of shame, of emotional trauma. There would be the pain of memories that carried the weight of fear itself, as though the entire world were intent on crushing his lungs. Perhaps trying the offender in court would be the first step in easing the agony.

It wouldn't be enough, nothing ever would be. Similarly, nothing would ever be quite right again. Nothing would ever return to the way it was before. When Chase woke, House knew that he wouldn't see the world in quite the same way. Things would always be a bit too grey, a bit too dark and dull. Words would always sting, even in the friendliest light, just a bit more than they used to. The world would become a prison, just like a body that served as a shell for a tormented mind. His friends, his job, his house, his life, none of it would ever be the same again.

House knew that tragic tale all too well. But just like he had learned in his own time, through his own struggles, there would be something out there, some way to come back. There always was. Chase would just have to find his way, preferably an escape that wasn't drugs or a tendency towards self-destruction. The likelihood of those outcomes, however, was unfortunately high.

Just as his fingers were beginning to tap along his thigh again, motion in his peripheral vision caught House's attention. At the same time, a gentle grunting sound came to his ears. Chase's arms were moving ever so slightly, and his eyelids were flickering, as though he were threatening to wake. Finally House sat up, back rigid, attentive to his latest patient. It seemed that Chase was coming to rather rapidly, eyes wide open within a few seconds, swimming with confusion. Another groan came from his mouth, and he looked at House, struggling to sit as he spoke, beating House to the exchange of words.

"You drugged me, you sick bastard."

House had expected nothing less, and was actually pleased by the lack of rage. Though Chase was the more 'eager-to-please' breed, there were none that took too well to being drugged against their will, and then taken to a strange place where they were scheduled to be cut open. So in this case, he had nothing against his employee for the strongly voiced opinion.

Chase's forearms proceeded to brush against the hospital gown that covered his body beneath the light sheets. It seemed as though he were first confused, and then greatly offended by the appearance of the garment over his body. After the quick inspection of the rest of his body, he turned his attention to the swollen club that his right hand had morphed into. A gentle wince came over his face, etching wrinkles in the young man's forehead. For a moment, House wondered if Chase would soon find himself looking in the mirror, that same expression of pain and sorrow continuing to urge those creases into his skin. It was a difficult thought to bear, the man that was renowned as both charming and attractive, gaining pained and weathered features far before his time. At this rate, it was a fate that was inevitable, and for that, House felt incredible remorse, going so far as to subconsciously bring his hand to his own face, feeling the lines that made up the texture of his skin.

He was pulled from his own self-consciousness as Chase gave a gentle tug at the IV drip attached to his arm before turning to the monitors at the side of the bed. After checking his own stats quickly, Chase turned back to House, and shamelessly expressed his feelings again, his voice ever so slightly stronger as the drugs lost their hold.

"I can't believe you did that to me. Jesus, you took my clothes off. I bet you went and tried to get some DNA samples too, didn't you? God, you drugged me and did that to me, even after everything I said. You're messed up, House, you're really messed up. I trusted you" he said, voice breaking as he did so. It seemed that tears were beginning to well in Chase's eyes, but House tried to ignore that as he replied, while ignoring the insinuation that he had somehow breached the younger doctor's trust.

"No need to thank me" House retorted, thumping his cane against the ground to make his point, keep the ice around his body as a shield to the spiking emotions. "But hey, you're here, so I owe you some morphine, isn't that right? No need to worry yourself sick over something that happened when you were unconscious. You can't remember, so it can't be your problem. Try not to think too much of it."

"It's not that simple!" Chase cried out, the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes already. "Nothing's going to be that simple again. If you somehow got his DNA, and you take it to court, they're going to want me to testify. They're going to want me to go in there and talk about this. And then everyone's going to know. It's bad enough that I'm here. By the time that I have my surgery and I'm out of this place, everyone's going to know."

"They're not" House answered, voice slightly softer again, trying to bring Chase down from his unfortunate emotional high. "I'm the only one who knows you here, and it's not like Costello or anyone else is exactly eager to spread gossip in another hospital. They have enough drama of their own over here. No one's going to think about what happened to you. All that matters now is the symptoms. This isn't a diagnostic case, they don't need a history, they don't need a cause. Their only job is to fix what's broken."

Chase wiped at the tears with his wrist, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, as though he would regain some composure by this simple action. Then he looked to House, accusation burning amongst the silver tears. "And what about you, House?" he asked. "What about you? You drugged me. You broke promises. You keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. I called you because I needed help, and I thought I could trust you. I guess I was wrong."

The words stuck like daggers into House's chest, threatening to steal his breath away. To be a trusted confident was never one of his top priorities, but he often prided himself in being the keeper of secrets, unless they were a threat to life. Even then, sometimes he held words and actions deep within himself, a vault of secrets within his mind. But now he was being accused of breaching trust by merely working within someone's best interests, someone terribly close to him. Swallowing the offense had taken to the statement, House carried on past his emotions, speaking merely factually.

"I told you that I would get your morphine if you came here. And now you're here. You'll be back in paradise in a matter of seconds, and won't need to yell at me for trying to make your life a little bit easier in the future. And really, what did you expect? I'm a bastard, according to you" he finished, pressing his thumb against the call button, hoping that the nurses were both attentive and effective.

"Nothing's ever going to be easy again" Chase said, his voice suddenly emotionless to a startling degree. "Things stopped being easy the day you told me I had to go to some medical conference instead of spending the weekend watching reruns on my couch. When I had to drop all my plans and drive up to Boston and prepare a talk in your place. Things stopped being easy when I had to spend my time so worried about impressing you and not ruining your name that I let my guard down. I let my guard down just enough for my entire life to fall apart. When he threw that first punch, I was only a little worried about how he was acting. That stupid, stupid presentation was all I could think about. And then it happened, House, and I got broken in a way that can never be fixed."

House was silent, and found it startling that he couldn't call any words to mind. That was a thought he hadn't considered before. He had been far too consumed in how to deal with the immediate situation, he didn't think back to how Chase had gotten into it. He was the one that had ordered Chase to go, and he had been the one to put the added pressure on him. If he had never sent Chase to the conference, none of this would have happened. He tried to come up with some sort of response, repressing the newfound guilt as he waited for the nurse to arrive.

"What happened to you was the fault of the person who decided to do it. Not mine. I didn't give anyone a gun, and I sure as hell didn't pull any triggers. You can yell at me another day if you really want to. It's nearly dinnertime. You might want to decide if you want dinner or drugs, because tomorrow you won't be eating much" he said, looking for the nurse with a degree of desperation. Thankfully, a woman was walking towards the bed.

Without giving Chase the chance to reply, House stood, and walked over to her. Gesturing to Chase with an open hand, he deftly gave her instructions. "How much morphine he needs is on his chart, but there's some room to up it if he whines too much."

He wasted no time in watching her reaction. Instead he pushed past her, Chase's words still on his mind, trying to formulate some kind of justification that differed from what he had spit back so hastily. The defense had been weak and cruel, cold as ever. None of it took away what had happened, and no words could undo what he had done. House grunted, trying to hold back the anger boiling in his gut. The anger was directed at no one in particular, but he was feeling the pain from it all.

There was a long road ahead, one of agony, of isolation, and of other assorted difficulties. Medical and emotional complexities would pave the way to the future, a future that would be dark and grim for Chase. And now that House was overcome with emotions, he realized that his future wasn't looking much different.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I appreciate every single follow, favorite, and review I receive on this story. In just a few chapter, there are so many of you supporting me, and so many kind words! It's absolutely astounding. Thank you all so much for the support, and thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. I hope to be posting the next chapter soon! Any questions, comments, or critique, feel free to leave a review or shoot me a PM! Thank you all again :)**


	7. Chapter 7

"Where's Chase?"

"I told you, it doesn't matter. He'll be back to work in a week."

"That's not an answer. He hasn't shown up to work in two days. It's not like him to just skip out on an open case like this" Cameron persisted as she followed House into his office. House only groaned, pushing the door open, not so much as bothering to hold it open as she barged in behind him.

"You know I sent him to that conference in Boston this weekend. It only ended last night. Chances are he was sick of all that actual work he had to do, and decided to kick back at a bar. Bet he couldn't make it back this morning" he protested half-heartedly, knowing how weak the defense sounded to the ears of Chase's closest companion. The usual steel edge that his voice carried was softer than normal, and the empathic Cameron picked up on it immediately, much to House's distaste.

"I don't think that's it. Actually, I'm sure of it. He wouldn't do that to himself if he knew he had work to do, and like you said, this case is important. You know he wouldn't do that, he just wouldn't. And since you're not asking us where he is, you have to know. Where is he?" Turning his back to her fiery retort, House grabbed the case file off of his desk and clutched it tight in his hand. It was hard to focus, to pretend as though he could work, with images of Chase's mangled hand rushing through his mind. The knowledge, the intense burden of his information, it was searing a hole into his usually steady confidence. So he turned, a scowl on his face, and thrust the folder out to Cameron, hoping that the white knuckles of his hand were shielded by the paper.

"He's wishing that you were doing your job right now, and maybe trying to save this woman's life. She is a mother, you know. I thought that made your heart ache, I thought it made you pity. We wouldn't want her to die because you were distracted with the whereabouts of your boy-toy, would we?" The subtle sting to his voice was enough to bring a look of stubborn defiance over Cameron's face, obviously indignant on shifting her stance. She stood strong for just a few moments, which was the least that House had expected from his employee.

And then, just as he had also predicted, she folded. Her walls came crumbling down with the most subtle gesture playing out across her lips. The anger-filled pout collapsed in on itself, and she bit down on her lower lip without so much as a sound. The creases that had gorged valleys into her forehead smoothed over as she contemplated the folder that House held in his hands, eyes searching for some sort of weakness that she could exploit in a last ditch attempt to win the argument. Finding none, she struggled for not another moment longer before the fire in her eyes turned to embers and she reached for the folder, raising the flag of surrender high for House to see. But this defeat was not without its displeasure on her part.

"I know that you know where he is. And I don't know what's wrong with him, and that means you do. And if he's hurt, and you aren't letting me know, I swear I'll-"

"You'll do nothing" House cut her off, gesturing towards the door with his cane. "Now go on. Shoo. Get. Don't you know there's a woman dying?" he said with feigned desperation. Biting back down on her lip again, Cameron looked towards the door, and then back to House.

"I'm only asking because I care. Foreman is worried too. We just want him to be okay, that's all. He's our friend. I know you might not care about him, but we do. Just, if you do know where he is, make sure he's alright" she sighed in resignation, and then turned towards the door, striding out as though nothing had transpired in the previous moments.

Just like that, House was left alone, without so much as a friend nearby to soothe his thoughts. He knew that retreating to Wilson's office would mean that in the end, he had been defeated in the subtle battle of emotions. That was a defeat to which he would never admit. So instead of folding, for the sake of his own pride, House grabbed his keys from where they sat on his desk. He knew exactly where he was going to go, and he knew that he was going to waste no time in getting there.

The comment that Cameron had made about him caring had stung more than he had expressed on his face. The thought of it wounding him at all carried the bulk of the surprise for the diagnostician. In fact, he was still battling his own denial over exactly how much he did care, not just for Chase, but for anyone at all. The fact that the comment had wounded him was a clear indicator of his true emotions on both the topic of his affection and his thoughts on Chase. But as he did with anything else that struck a bit too near to his walled-off heart, he pushed the thought from his mind as quickly as it had entered.

Almost as though he hoped to physically leave the thoughts in the room behind him, House moved as rapidly as he could to leave the office, and escape to the parking lot. He knew that he had to head over to Princeton General as soon as he could, just for the sake of easing his own conscience.

And perhaps, for the sake of Chase's health and recovery.

-H-O-U-S-E-

Without so much as checking in at the desk, House wandered towards the recovery room for recent Post-OP patients. In this solemn space, there was less coughing, less moaning and crying than the typical hospital room. There were rows of bandaged souls, white gauze covering arms, faces, and surely more beneath pale blankets. Usually, House was not one to stare so excessively as he made his way across the space, but he was brought to ponder what exactly led these people to come to these beds.

Was it merely something routine? Had they kissed their families before they were wheeled into the OR, a slight smile on their faces? Or had they been torn from their homes, lifted up on the backs of angels, subjected to a fury of blinding lights and medical technicians yelling desperately? Had some tragedy brought them to this place? Had they been crying before a needle slid into their arm, offering them the only release they knew?

These thoughts were running rampant through his mind, and House had to will his feet to keep moving beneath him, carrying him forward, past those bodies of souls that hung in limbo. He would never know there stories, just as he never knew just how much the heart of his patients ached. Before, it hadn't mattered. Now it did, Chase's injury suddenly bringing a new perspective to the rows of bodies that lay silent in beds. They were more than just broken bits and pieces; they were broken minds, broken souls, their wounded bodies not the half of it. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he had to use all of his strength to fight it, trying to get to Chase as quickly as he could.

But before he knew it, House was standing before his youngest employee, the intensivist lying beneath pastel sheets, his right arm swathed in white. The bandages extended down to his very fingertips, and carried on up to his elbow. The hand and wrist were positioned normally, resting on top of Chase's stomach for the time being, which was the most soothing effect. It was one thing to know that the surgery had gone well, but just to see the normal aesthetics of a functioning hand were enough to bring temporary peace of mind to the diagnostician.

With a quick look over at the IV leading into Chase's arm, House saw that at the very least, his employee was free of pain. The heavy dose of drugs was a clear explanation for why the blond was resting so peacefully, his eyes not so much as twitching as his body tried desperately to pull itself back together beneath the expanse of gauze. There would be pain, and House figured it kind to spare him for at least some of it. Figuring that he would be content without speaking for at least a little while, House sat down next to Chase, staring him over thoughtfully, hoping that he could entertain himself with the palace of his mind.

Unfortunately, it was merely a few minutes later that House realized that this tactic had been well exhausted over the past few days. There was only so much silence that he could stand when his mind was constantly on fire, alight with new thoughts, ideas, and questions. Of course, he had not driven to just sit in silence beside the bed of an ailing man. If that was what he had desired, he would have paid a visit to the coma patient that he had developed quite the soft spot for. Or rather, a soft spot for the comfort and solace the room provided. But this provided the same effect in the end.

Using a lazy hand, House cut the drip of fluids into Chase's arm, hoping that the effect would wear off sooner rather than later. There were methods to stave pain that did not involve sedation (which House knew well enough) and for the sake of providing himself a conversation, House figured that Chase could be brought to the world of the waking for just a few minutes. If the pain began to return, House promised himself that he would not extend the agony that Chase was suffering, and merely restart the flow of drugs and return home.

True to his own self-proclaimed wisdom, it was within ten minutes that Chase was beginning to groan, his body stirring ever so slightly from where he lay. First his left arm twitched with a slight tremor, and then Chase's eyelids started to flutter, his lips parting in a subtle moan of exhaustion and pain. House watched the process silently, leaning onto his cane from where he sat, eager to observe the metamorphosis. It was as though he were watching a creature claw itself up from an open grave, drawing life into a body that had once been utterly extinguished of it.

Soon enough, the transition stage had passed, and Chase was on the brink of fully alert consciousness. In House's opinion, it couldn't have come soon enough. He was craving a sort of conversation, a window into Chase's struggling soul. It wasn't as though he enjoyed the show, as though it were a sick sort of entertainment. He was merely eager to catch a glimpse into Chase's mind, get an idea of just how fractured his being really was, all for the sake of promoting his recovery further down the line.

As Chase took in the light from the blinding fluorescents above, there was no surprise he had a look of discontent on his face while regarding House's presence. The elder diagnostician had expected nothing less. The Aussie had been less than pleased at being relocated for the surgery, and even more upset over House's callous words and actions regarding his bodily violations. So it was not so much startling, as it was disappointing, to hear the first words from Chase's mouth muttered at a low rasp.

"What're you doin' here?" Chase slurred beneath his breath, obviously still shaking off the effects of the drug. "What time is it?"

"It's just about one in the afternoon" House answered honestly, knowing that there was no benefit to any sort of benign deception. "You've been out for something like twenty four hours now. You must've been unconscious for the sponge bath" he joked halfheartedly, knowing that his face was still somber.

Chase didn't so much as twitch at the joke, only looked down at his arm with a slight grimace. "I'm guessing all this bandaging means that it worked. I'm just glad to see it's all still there. At least my medical proxy didn't decide to have something removed while I was under" the intensivist muttered. Admittedly, the blow stung, and House felt the words bite into his skin as Chase uttered them. It seemed that the doctor was conscious enough to be rude, which House took as good of a sign as any. Perhaps it was just the temporary peace washing over him, but House noted that the hollowness had vanished from Chase's eyes, and was replaced with a subtle fire. Perhaps it was the slightest spark, a manifestation for the will to live.

Yet despite this sick bit of humor that Chase presented, House found himself irritated enough to ignore Chase for the next passing moment. The intensivist could busy himself with studying his own arm, staring at the shell wrapped around his hand, while House wandered down to the edge of the bed to grab the chart that was hanging there. He hoped to find exactly what medication they had prescribed, as well as any specific procedures done. Unfortunately, the doctor overseeing Chase seemed to have the same problem House did; an absolute refusal towards filling out charts all the way.

Without so much as grumbling over the small roadblock, House pulled himself towards Chase once more, staring at the doctor with curious eyes. "So tell me, Chase, how're you feeling? Has the pain set back in yet?" Chase didn't miss the acidic malice that had been laced into the question, but from the slight grimace inching its way up Chase's lips, House already knew the answer.

"Asking how someone feels, that's a new one for you. But yeah, if you have to know, it hurts like a son of a bitch already. Please, House, do you have what you want to know? Because whatever the hell I'm on is some good stuff. Just ask your questions, and let me go back to sleep."

And there it was. The chink in the armor that House had used to tear down the entire shield. With a simple question, an admission of some sort of concern, was enough to tear down the pitiful façade that Chase had pieced together in a matter of seconds. The intensivist was still broken, still hurting, and from the glassy sheen that had come over his eyes, House suspected that the memories had returned as well. House prepared to ask another, but thought better of it, recalling his own severe pain following the surgery, the ghost of pain that clung to him every day. He couldn't bring that upon someone else, knowing firsthand just how much the wound could carve out a piece of soul.

"No, no questions. That's all. Make sure you keep an eye on what the nurses are giving you. You're smarter than them, and probably most of the doctors on staff here. I'm just a call away, but that's not an open invitation for you to call me. It's just something I'm saying to be polite. Now get some nice, peaceful, drug induced sleep" House chirped with a false grin, reaching for the plastic tubing and allowing the drug to continue its path into Chase's blood.

The young doctor didn't reply, for he didn't have adequate time to form a response of any kind. The instant the drug hit his veins, his eyes were already rolling up into the back of his head. House didn't need an answer to his verbal questions, for he had received the answers to the unspoken he in those few short exchanges. Medically, he was satisfied for the time being. But Chase, he had quite a long ways to go.

 **Sorry that this update is so late, but thank you all so much for reading! I hope that this chapter was enjoyable, and I hope to be updating again soon! Thanks so much for taking time out of your day to read this story, and I sincerely appreciate every follow, favorite, and review that i have recieved on this story. Thanks again!**


	8. Chapter 8

House spent the next two days much as he had spent the first. The morning was spent at work, only a few hours of which he could bear. Those few unbearable hours were either spent rife with argument, or with House's most common habit; hiding away from responsibility. He knew that his employees were less than happy with their missing colleague, an absence that he knew they would not take lightly. Despite those initial expectations, that did not make their emotions any simpler to deal with. He had Chase's well-being on his mind as his primary concern, and there was no use in Cameron pestering him about it every ten minutes. They still had cases to work, jobs to get done. They were short one member, but with House forcing himself out of the picture, the team was down to two.

House himself couldn't really think clearly. The case swam in front of his eyes every time he tried to look at it, the symptoms wavering in and out of clarity as though he was submerged. A swarm of medical terms flashed in and out of his head before he could voice them, a thousand explanations for what could be ailing his patient sparking across his tongue. None of them made sense, and none of them fought their way to daylight through the fog. Thinking on Chase, and thinking of himself, tore House as far from sanity as he had been in quite some time.

Thus far, he had even failed to retreat to Wilson's office, as was his usual course of action during times of distress. While he would normally voice his concerns to his mild-mannered best friend, he could not draw himself out of silence. Even to Wilson, House had not revealed the true nature of Chase's pain, discuss the trauma that had been inflicted. There was no way that he could betray the young doctor in such a way, discuss secrets so terribly painful with any other soul. That was Chase's burden to bear, and what the young man could not, House would try to carry for him.

The hours that weren't spent at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, House would spend at Princeton General, sitting by Chase's bedside. Each day had been a bit easier, less anger and frustration bubbling to the surface each time that Chase struggled to wake from his drug induced slumber. They were weaning him off the drugs slowly, but House could tell from the creases in Chase's face that whatever they were giving him instead wasn't enough. The pain was so clear, it was like a beacon of utter despair, a silent cry for help that House knew he couldn't give clear response to.

More often than not, Chase would lay silent, and House would inquire gently here or there. _How do you feel? Tell me what hurts the worst?_ If Chase had just opted to close his eyes, House would pester the hospital staff in a way that only he was capable of, nearly incessantly. _Nurse, tell me, can I speak with his doctor? You don't understand, I really need to see his charts. When is the next x-ray scheduled? Can't you give him something stronger, can't you see he's in pain?_

Most of the latter questions were asked away from the bedside, where he felt free to use the usual scalding tone that came off of his tongue. He had no shame, no personal restraints to keep him from scowling at these nurses any differently. The doctors that expressed incompetence deserved the same scorn as the ones from his workplace, the patients that whined needed nothing other than his bitter scowls. But Chase, he needed support, however barbed House's tongue tended to be.

Today, on this third day, House intended to do much the same as those previous. He had finished his few hour stint at the office, and now he strode towards the entrance of Princeton General, a book tucked under his arm for when Chase had to close his eyes and rest his head back. The emotional turmoil occasionally became too much for Chase, so House did the man a favor by ignoring the tears and flipping the book open, reading until Chase had regained his composure. The silence had been far too much for him recently, and he found that reading during the periods of intermittent silence was enough for both of the doctors to remain relatively content.

He made his way through the lobby and up to Chase's room without a single hand reaching out to stop him, his presence having already become pure normalcy in the corridors of the medical facility. It appeared as though there were no signs of unusual distress, nothing that raised any alarms to House's acute senses. Yet when he arrived by Chase's bedside, something was wrong, jarringly off from the scene that House had well expected.

The blond-haired doctor was supposed to have been nearly weaned off of the sedatives and high-strength medication by the early afternoon. It was just past noon, and if anything, Chase should have been more alert at this point in time than any other time of the day. But the intensivist was laying prone, beads of sweat rolling down his face, heart rate on the monitor jumping at an uneven staccato. Without even blinking, House processed the rest of the stats, running them through his mind as quickly as he could compute any sort of viable results. That took only a moment, but his heart leaped when he realized that something was awfully, terribly wrong.

"Chase" he spoke loudly, putting a hand on the intensivists shoulder and shaking roughly, to which he got no response, not so much as a flicker of Chase's eyelids. Looking at the stats once again, House knew with a sinking feeling in his gut exactly what was wrong, more so than just medically, but instinctually. It was a deep cloud of fear and distress that washed over him like a wave of cold water, the absolute realization of the tragedy that he was in the progress of witnessing. Summoning his voice from the very depths of his stomach, he called out towards the door to the room, not caring who he disturbed or woke, knowing only the immediate urgency of the current situation.

"We need help in here! Patient is unresponsive" he shouted, hand still gripping Chase's shoulder, ignoring the sickly pallor that had come over the Aussie's face as best he could. Though he heard footsteps coming in the distance, he knew that there was no time to wait. Darting from Chase's bedside, as reluctant as he was to leave him, House sought out the cart of medical supplies that he knew would be nearby.

"Sir, what are you doing?" A nurse asked as House looked around the room frantically, and others rushed to Chase's bedside, checking his vitals. Frustrated, face turning red with emotion, House shouted again, attempting to portray the true severity of the situation.

"He needs dextrose, now. He's suffering from an insulin overdose, but he needs dextrose now, or he's going to die. His BP is dropping, his heart is straining, and he's unconscious. What about that don't you understand?" he exclaimed, heart aching with the strain as he continued the confrontation with the hospital staff. The woman was staring at him with a look of disbelief, her incredulity at his statement plain to read. She stuttered for a moment, shaking her head as calmly as she could manage with the flurry of activity.

"I'm sorry sir, but who are you-"

"I'm a doctor, and unless you want a dead patient, you'll get that dextrose right now. You can see my credentials once you save his life" House snarled, glancing over at the people standing over Chase, frantically checking his IV and stats. From the commotion that House had caused, it seemed he had caught their attention, and the nurse had hurried away in search of what House had requested.

Mere seconds, passed before a syringe of dextrose was retrieved from a location beyond House's sight. Those few moments may as well have been an eternity as a team of medical staff frantically examined Chase's body. House checked the dosage before he snatched it from the nurse's hand, pushing all of the others aside so he could shove the needle into the IV. He heard shouts of protest, felt a hand steady on his arm trying to yank him back, but nothing would stop him from saving a life.

Depressing the plunger, he watched as the liquid made its way towards Chase's veins, the clear fluid carrying the sugars that needed to bond with the excess of insulin if Chase were to survive. House was only praying that they weren't too late, that Chase wasn't too far gone. Even if he woke again, there was no promise that there was no permanent damage, that there would be any sort of future.

The effects were not instant, as Chase's erratic heartbeat did anything but cease. The two nurses and the doctor that were standing by Chase's bedside looked at him with wide eyes, filled with a mixture of fear and disbelief. The doctor was eyeing the syringe that House still had in his hands, opening his mouth to protest, reaching an arm forward. "Now who the hell are you-" the man began, but House remained unfazed.

Rolling his eyes, House set the needle down on the stand beside the bed, and began to hunt under Chase's pillows, holding up a finger to ward off the angry doctor that he was faced with. The seconds ticked by slowly, but House nodded to himself as his fingers brushed against what he knew he would find. Once he found what he had been searching for, the hard plastic clenched between his fingers, he retrieved it and demonstrated his findings on open palms for the small assembled party to observe.

Three small syringes were resting in his weathered hands, empty and labelled clearly. The unnamed doctor edged forward to see the labels a bit closer, and then he too was left shaking his head, eyeing House cautiously. It seemed that the brunt of his anger had utterly dissipated.

"How did you know? Who are you?" the man stuttered, and House knew that he no longer had conflict. He placed the syringes down, and took a well-needed deep breath.

"I'm Dr. Gregory House, and this is one of my patients. I knew that he was dying because I could read his vitals and tell you just what was wrong without all of your blabbering. Don't forget that I'm the reason he's going to live, not your sorry ass. He's going to need close monitoring to ensure that his blood sugar returns to normal, but don't worry, since it seems that your staff is incompetent, I think I can handle it from here" he stated bluntly, turning a cold shoulder to the small party that had come to surround him. Thankfully, upon stating his name, he watched the doctor flinch back in clear recognition.

"That's not part of our policy" the man stuttered hesitantly, but all House bothered to do was smack his cane loudly against the nearby wall, bringing a few nurses to jump back.

"And where is it in your policy that you let patients try to off themselves without so much as blinking? Where is it in your policy that a man can just take as much insulin as he wants and then stick it in his arm? How about that? Careful, don't let them hear about this in the psych ward, or your guys downstairs in the morgue will get really busy" House spit back, gesturing to the empty syringes of insulin with open disdain.

"That wasn't our intention at all-"

"I'm sure it wasn't, but maybe if you had someone competent, this wouldn't have happened. Hell, maybe your nurses come through every once in a while, but maybe they're too busy dancing around with their heads up their asses to give a damn about someone who is clearly suffering. You obviously know who I am, so why don't you let me deal with my patient to the standard of care that I provide mine" he interjected angrily, which was enough to make one of the nurses take a physical step back in what must have been fear. This was enough to make the doctor relent, clearly upset at the accusations House gave surrounding the general practice in the hospital.

"Well, we'll still be by to check on our schedule, and we are the primary care providers, so…" that's where the doctor trailed off, falling silent as he realized the inadequacy of his words. House gave a wry smile, giving a clear display of his lack of satisfaction.

"Fantastic to know that you won't let him nearly die a second time. If you need to consult with a real doctor for anything, I'll be here" House said, turning his back on the dissipating party once and for all. No one bothered to say another word as they broke apart, shuffling their separate ways in shock and shame. House stayed behind, the silence and isolation overwhelming him, and the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

-H-O-U-S-E-

It took only minutes for the course of treatment to take full effect, and for Chase to subsequently begin to regain consciousness. And those few minutes, as short as they were, filled House with agony. He was staring at the three syringes on the bedside table as though they were ghosts. Chase's ashen form was sickening to look at, a pale corpse of hope and promise. What had only been a few minutes prior, the doctor had attempted to take his own life.

The insulin had been more than enough to kill him, and at relatively rapid pace. It had seemed that Chase was already halfway to death's door by the time that House arrived. For a few moments, House thanked luck, an accomplice he had not seen much of in the recent days. Between the loss of his latest patient, and Chase's tragedy, it had been as though hope and luck had been mocking his existence. But then by chance, he had stumbled upon Chase as he slipped away, the essence of life quickly fading with each erratic heartbeat.

What was the probability that he had walked in within that precious few minute window that Chase could be saved? It was unbelievable, utterly unfathomable. Even a miracle, perhaps. But House would refuse to use such crude language, and rather, would look at what led to the event.

Considering what Chase had been through, the suicide attempt was anything except unexplained. House felt no need to ask the cliché question of why. He knew why. He knew the physical pain, and could only begin to guess at the emotional that had come from a sexual trauma. The aftermath had wandered into the clinic, day after day, the red-rimmed eyes and shaking shoulders. The willingness to cave in on a hollow frame, beaten of any will and spirit, all manifest through lifeless eyes. Though it was most often the young women that came stumbling in, House saw no difference between them and the doctor that lay before him.

As much as he hated to admit it sometimes, Chase was human, terribly and painfully human. There was no getting around that. He could hurt just like anyone else, he could bear the wounds just as well as anyone else. Just because he was Robert Chase, employee of Gregory House, did not bring him to be exempt of pain.

Part of House wondered if he should admit that he cared. Although he had done that enough over the past few days, in his own subtle mannerisms, he wondered if it was time to grit his teeth and spit out the words as plainly as he could manage. The thoughts were racing through his mind, but then Chase's eyelids started to flicker, and House realized he was running out of time to come up with anything of substance.

After checking the intensivist's vitals, House looked back down, studying the wrinkles that were working their way into Chase's face as consciousness returned. Just a few moments later, Chase was groaning in apparent pain, shifting his body ever so slightly beneath the sheets as he woke. It was all happening far too fast for House's tastes, as he still tried to grasp the depth of what had just occurred, how close Chase had brushed with death. He wondered what he could say to Chase, how he could reason with him, how he could work on fixing what was broken. Fortunately, he didn't have to make the first step. As Chase opened his eyes completely, blinking against the light, he spoke nearly instantly.

"House?... What's going on? Why're you here?" The younger man seemed hesitant as he spoke, staring around the hospital with what was apparent confusion. A wry smile on his face, House tapped his cane lightly against the ground, as though he were curious.

"Are you surprised, Chase? I've been to see you every day so far. That's not surprising you. What is it?" He prompted this in a manner that feigned ignorance. It was obvious to see the concern rising in Chase's eyes as he continued to survey his environment, take in his surroundings with care.

"It's… It's nothing. Just surprised to see you here so many days in a row is all" Chase stuttered, lips twitching in a weak attempt to form a smile. House only shook his head, and tapped his cane against the ground again, a steady rhythm that filled the background of the conversation.

"No, that's not what has you so confused. I think it's the fact that you're here" House said, any jesting absent from his suddenly solemn voice. He couldn't manage, despite his strength, to bring any of his usual attitude into his tone. The prospect of death to someone so close was just a bit too dark. To fill the gaping silence that Chase's lack of response had created, House reached over to the table and grabbed the syringes that still rested there, carefully holding them up for Chase to see.

"I think you're surprised that you're still alive. This is easily a fatal dose of insulin, isn't it? Your body functions were slowly shutting down, and in another minute or so, you would have lapsed into a coma, and a bit after that, the rest of your bodily systems would have shut down. That's when you would have died. But you already knew that, didn't you?" House asked gently, replacing the syringes where they had been lying. Chase's face was suddenly overcome with a shade of bright red, something that House easily identified as intense shame. There was silence once again, one that House didn't bother to break for the time being.

The first thing that Chase did was reach a hand up to rub his eyes, which had grown red and watery as House had been speaking. After tending to the premature tears, pushing them down for a few moments, Chase turned his head to look at the monitor, studying it for a few moments before staring down at his arm. Then the young doctor spoke, his voice high-pitched, right on the edge of breaking.

"How did they catch it in time? After lunch is cleared away, the nurses go on break, and there's only a few serving the rotation for this floor. They shouldn't have been back to me for another half hour or longer" Chase mumbled dejectedly, to which House felt sick. Although he hadn't exactly expected for Chase to beg for life following his close call, to see how much the intensivist still truly longed for death was disconcerting, to say the least.

"It's because I showed up" House answered honestly, giving a slight shrug. "If I hadn't been here, you're right, you would've died and no one would have noticed until you flatlined. Let me tell you, for a suicidal man, you're pretty smart" he finished his comment bitterly, turning away from Chase as he was overcome with emotions. It seemed that Chase was struck by this comment as well, but not enough so that he deviated from his twisted wishes.

"I know I'm supposed to thank you for saving my life, or something like that, but I don't think that I could do that right now. You can't say much when you never wanted to be saved. I suppose they'll have me on suicide watch now, and you won't give me half a chance anyway. And I also guess you're going to ask why I did it. That's all that anyone will want to know, isn't it?"

"No one's going to get a chance to ask" House responded quickly, trying his best to leave the situation as isolated as possible. "No one's going to know what you just did unless you decide to tell them yourselves. I told you I was keeping this confidential, and I don't make a habit of making a liar out of myself. As for what you tell me, I figure that's your business. Talk, don't talk, that's up to you. It's usually pretty personal, why a man decides to try and take his own life."

"But this will affect you, whether I'm dead or not. You're going to lose an employee, and you don't have a choice about that" Chase choked out, a single tear falling down his face for the first time since the night of the incident. House didn't flinch to this, for he felt no need to react with extravagant displays of emotion. By keeping his visage stony, he was allowing Chase to keep at least some of his dignity.

"I don't know what you're talking about" House responded, doing his best to feign ignorance to the situation. He knew what Chase was thinking, and he had thought it on his own as well. He was tempted to try and halt the conversation before it began, but the intensivist obviously had no restraint as he cried the words straight from his heart.

"You know that I'm useless now. Without my hand, I'm nothing. I can't hold a glass right now, much less a scalpel. And you know that I'm a surgeon, that's all I've ever done. I read my chart, I looked at my x-rays. I have more metal in my arm than you have on your damned motorcycle. I'm being held together by plates, screws, stitches, and sutures. I haven't seen something this bad in years, and I know the prospects. They're dark. I'll be lucky if I can ever write my name again" Chase cried bitterly, voice rising in pitch as he grew more and more distraught.

"What are you talking about?" House spit, gesturing towards Chase's cast with an open palm. "You have no idea what will or won't come of your injury. Yes, I know, it sucks. And I've tried to be here. You don't know how far you'll go once they finish the surgeries. I got out with most of my leg, and you already have the upper hand here, because they just pieced you together, didn't take anything out. There's a chance for you, there really is. You don't need to behave so irrationally."

"It's not irrational" Chase muttered, running his good hand over the white as though there were a chance it would bite back at him. "It's what's realistic. And it's not just my hand that I want to get away from" he whispered, voice hushed. He swallowed, wiped at his eyes, before falling into silence. House refrained from speaking, because he saw Chase's bottom lip trembling, and knew that there was something that he wanted to say, something dark, something personal. It took only another minute before the damn broke, and Chase whispered the words as though they were poison.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I feel his hands, and I know what he did all over again. I can't live like that any longer. It's going to drive me insane. Even if my hand gets fixed, it can't undo what he did. Nothing ever will. It's only been days, just days, and it's still as though it happened just minutes ago. I can't escape him, and I don't think I'll be able to be at peace until I'm dead."

House paused, silent as he stared at Chase crying again, at only the second true admittance of what had happened to him. And this was when the rage returned, filling House's gut as potent as any kind of poison. His hands were trembling, although he grasped his cane to mask the unsightly symptoms of his hidden anger. After a moment's pause, House swallowed, spitting out his words with his emotions as disguised as he could manage.

"That's what this is about. It's that son of a bitch who did this to you. Tell me who he is, Chase. Tell me who tried to take you from us." That was the most civil way that House could possibly manage to get his message across at the moment, without taking some sort of physical action.

The statement was strong, and definitive. It displayed a direct closeness that House rarely admitted, but this didn't seem to shock Chase all that deeply. Instead, he was still staring off into the distance, weeping ever so gently. "I can't tell you. He'll come back, he'll hurt me again. He promised that much. He said that he'd kill me if I let anyone know. My career would be over, he made sure I knew that. With every breath in my ear and on my neck, he made sure I knew it. Please, House. Don't ask again."

After a moment of thought, House shook his head. Despite the trauma that Chase had gone through, he would not rest. A man had been audacious enough to commit rape, and he had simply been brutish enough to think he could evade the consequences. The thought of Chase fearing death from his assailant made House feel physically ill; at the same time, it only strengthened his determination to chase the problem to its original source.

"That's not how this is going to work. I'm going to keep asking until I get an answer, because I'm not going to let that man ever come near you again. I won't let him get anywhere close. I promise you'll be safe. Just tell me his name, Chase, and I'll make sure he won't ever see the sunlight another day in his life. Tell me."

More silence. Then suddenly, Chase looked at House, those red-streaked eyes becoming far too familiar. Then Chase spoke, his voice quiet, wounded, hardly any more than a whisper.

"Lowell. Dr. Jeffery Lowell."

 **Ahh thank you all so much for reading! I seriously appreciate every single favorite, follow, and review on this story! If you ever have a question, comment, concern, or critique, feel free to drop a review or shoot me a PM. My inbox is always open! Just a few more chapters to go! I hope this one was satisfying :) I hope to update again soon. Once again, thank you all so much!**


	9. Chapter 9

For the twentieth time in the past thirty seconds, House knocked his cane hard against the apartment door, making sure that the flimsy wood rattled loudly in its frame. House had half a mind to take his good leg and ram it straight through, ensuring that he could get his message across as quickly as possible to the soul that lay beyond the quivering barrier. Patience was not a virtue that he found on his side this evening, especially after spending the better part of six hours in the car, speeding down the highway. Cities and towns had flashed by as nothing more than minute winking in the distance, thousands of people reduced to a dot branching off of an asphalt behemoth. The only city that House had set his eyes on was the twinkling outskirts of New York city, and one man amongst thousands that could keep his attention on this night.

It was amazing what a quick online search and a few dollars could get a man, and this infinite ease was something that House was eternally grateful for. He had been able to bring himself to the door of his objectives with just a few minutes spent on his laptop, fingers clicking away on the well-worn keyboard, diving into the depths of years of history to find all that he possibly could on one Jeffery Lowell. Keystrokes and clicks had led him to tear a man's life apart, less than an hour spent in front of the screen, and he was ready to paint a bright red target on the man he had come to know quite well.

House's interaction with oncologists was relatively limited, and of the regular interactions he had with Wilson, it was hard to imagine someone who signed on to dealing with cancer patients could be anything but a saint. However, it seemed that Jeffery Lowell began as a surgical oncologist before turning strictly to research combatting cancer, a groundbreaking scientist in his field. House was tempted to display an immediate disdain for all of oncology at this revelation, but was able to push it down when thinking of his friend and his sickeningly sweet compassion. The atrocities of one man could not define an entire branch of medicine, and if he let the hatred burrow itself any further, House was afraid he would never be able to escape its maw.

It was just as easy for House to see where Lowell had first made contact with Chase, however innocent that original touch of fate had been. The man's biography was boasted openly on multiple websites, for he was quite renowned in his field. Most highlighted was his success in the surgical removal of difficult to access tumors, and the development of new tools that would aid in the practice. He had done a few years of in-depth research at a Melbourne hospital, where Chase had also done his residency, and those years happened to coincide. Why the older man had taken such an interest in the young intensivist was yet unknown, but House was just as disgusted without knowing the full story. A few years previously, for an undisclosed reason, Lowell had moved to an apartment in New York City, and had been admitted into a state-of-the-art research facility without any fuss. The constant relocations led House to ponder, with a state of disgust, if Chase was this man's first victim.

Suddenly growing impatient with the lack of response, more irritated than he had been yet that night, House prepared to throw his shoulder into the door, as if it would make some sort of difference in the efficiency of his current process. Luckily, just as he had planted his cane firmly upon the ground, the door opened, and the same face that House had spent the entire last afternoon staring on a blue screen at was inches in front of him.

The man's visage was twisted into a grimace of frustration, cheeks flushed as a clear indicator of just how irritated he was at the late night intrusion. Although his face was pinched with wrinkles on his forehead, Lowell's hair was dyed a rich, dark brown, with only a few grey roots shining above his ears. This gave him the appearance of a much younger man, but from his scavenging, House knew the truth. A few solid years were trimmed off by the stylish cut and color, but his true age only made his frequent perversions even more sickly.

At the same time, a few more things suddenly fell into clarity. The man's size was yet another matter to factor into the equation. Lowell's shoulders were broad, and his frame easily towered above and beyond House's gaunt one. Although it wasn't easy to see what kind of strength Lowell possessed from the brief glance House had taken thus far, it was simple enough for him to make the deduction that Chase had been easily overpowered. Most of the men that were so brutish in size possessed some element of strength, whether they made the effort or not. The man's weight would likely have been enough to stun and subdue Chase, despite the intensivist's youth and muscle mass.

There were a million things rushing through House's mind, his brain processing the input information at the speed of a breathing computer, yet he still made eye contact with Lowell's glittering black pupils, trying to determine if the man knew the fate that lay ahead of him. But judging by the anger, and masked confusion, Lowell had no idea why House was here. The next words uttered from the oncologist's mouth, angry and below his breath, and were directed with a sharp bite towards House.

"Who are you? What do you want? It's the middle of the night, who do you think you are?" The anger tainting the man's voice wasn't enough to daunt House into submission, just as it wasn't enough to make him take even half a step back. Readjusting his weight onto his cane, House tilted his head to the side, and bit back a sharp retort that would reveal his true purpose almost immediately. His rehearsed response came out in a bitterly false tone, but as long as it was enough to keep the door open, House was satisfied, and could stand his ground.

"Don't you recognize me? Please tell me that I'm not mistaken. You're Dr. Lowell, aren't you? I'm Dr. House, from what I was told, you've heard of me before. In fact, you have mentioned me with quite a high regard for my name. It just seems a shame that I've never met you in person" House commented, his tone a bit higher pitched that he would have normally spoken. It took all of his willpower to swallow down the sarcastic tone that usually coupled his statements, but if anything, House thanked that he was a good enough actor to pass off as nonthreatening. With negativity and confusion still tainting the air, House got his reply quickly.

"I don't understand" Lowell sputtered, the anger fading to annoyance, but no spark of recognition alighted in his face. "Yes, I've heard of you on more than one occasion, and I have an appreciation for your work, but why are you here? How did you even know where I live? It's nearly midnight" the man hissed, the annoyance seeping out as a brutal poison that tainted the accent on every syllable Lowell spit. House merely shook his head, trying with all of his willpower not to spit out the contemptuous words he was holding in.

"You see, I'm here regarding one of my patients. It really was urgent that I got here as soon as possible. You're the only one that I could possibly consult. You see, this patient actually happens to matter a great deal to me. He's more than just a patient. He's an employee of mine" House finished, keeping his words as plain as he could manage, not allowing his anger and disgust to make their way into his statement. But the words were effective as they were said, an appalled look making its way over Lowell's face. It took a moment for this recognition to alight in the coals of Lowell's eyes, those menacing pupils filled with a darkness that House could only feel disdain for. But it was what he had been eagerly awaiting; the bitter recognition as the pieces fell together, and Lowell came to bitterly recall his sins. Then came the anger, as the oncologist realized that his plans had fallen apart beneath him, crumbling like sand.

"Son of a bitch" Lowell spit beneath his breath, face growing red nearly instantaneously, his entire body shaking as he processed the sudden gravity of his predicament. The hand that had been wrapped around the door frame was suddenly white-knuckled, and by the way that Lowell glared down at House, it was easy to see how quickly the man was deteriorating as the memories of his crime ran through his mind.

"What's wrong?" House taunted, his breath low, a similar combination of rage and adrenaline flowing like poison through his veins. "Surprised you got caught? You thought he wasn't strong enough to go up against you, but I swear that he is. He's more than you ever took him for, and now, your career is over. You're done, Lowell" he swore this with every ounce of his being, but it seemed that the other doctor was having none of it. The man seemed to smirk, a disgusting half smile that showed artificially whitened teeth, and an ill chuckle came from behind his lips.

"Oh, that's the one thing you're right about. He has more balls than I had given him credit for. But I also made him a promise. I promised that little boy of yours that if he ever whispered a word of the times that we had, I would ruin him. But why should I start with him? Why don't I start with you, the one he obviously trusted enough to tell you about what had to be some of the most humiliating moments of his life. Taking on him would be one thing, but I've done it before. A cripple, he sends a cripple to confront me. It's practically amusing. And to think that I once respected you, Dr. House."

The only reason that House didn't fall when the fist crashed into his jaw was that he had seen the punch coming a mile away. Lowell's left had had been pushing the door open in preparation, and the creaking sound was audible before it was flung all the way open. The fist left Lowell's body wide open as he swung, but House didn't strike back, merely braced himself against his artificial support, leaning back on his good leg to bear the impact. It came with such strength that House saw stars swimming in his field of vision, and his whole body swayed to the side. If the punch had come from the other direction, he surely would have toppled, unable to catch himself on his cane. But he remained standing, just barely, willing himself to take it all for Chase's sake, reminding himself that the younger man had endured an agony much worse.

 _So this is how that son-of-a-bitch got Chase_ House thought bitterly, ignoring the explosive pain that blossomed from his jaw. The patchwork of bruising across Chase's face and neck, and surely the rest of his body, had been impressively gruesome at their very least. Just from the physical evidence, House should have expected the strength behind Lowell's body, but he had still rushed in, as brazen as usual. Spitting slightly, a façade to convince Lowell that he was stronger than he appeared, House straightened his back and stared back at the man who had thrown the punch. The words slipped from his mouth, and though he knew what they beckoned, he allowed them to pass his lips.

"Is that really all you got?"

The next punch, House definitely did not see coming with any clarity. This one was so quick, and it needed to warning. Lowell was squared, and the punch flew directly into House's nose, knocking him straight across the hallway and into the wall behind the door. The cane remained in his hand, but his leg gave out from under him, and he slid pitifully to the floor without so much more than a grunt. Then Lowell was towering over him in the next instant, like an animal on the attack. House couldn't even spit a retort before Lowell hauled him to a sitting position by the collar of his shirt, and growled into his ear with an inhuman rasp.

"I think you just wish you were getting the same treatment that Robert got, isn't that right, Gregory? Sorry to say, I only go for the young and beautiful. I'll still work you over though, don't worry about that" came the deadly promise, just before he punched House again, once more square in the face. This one was also planted straight between his eyes, and House felt his nose erupt with sensation, the pain overwhelming him. A warm fluid was suddenly leaking over his lips, the steady flow working between his lips as he sputtered for a breath. Coppery blood was spurting steadily from his nose, drawing a maniacal laugh from Lowell, who threw his head back and cackled.

"Bastard" was all that House could bear to mutter as he blinked to clear his vision from the terrible pain, and make the three copies of the man before him reduce back down to the one truth. Before he was successful with that task, another few blows landed in the soft tissue of his abdomen, bringing him severe nausea while causing him to cough, the blood from his nose and mouth splattering his grey shirt. Before Lowell could throw another punch, House felt the man leaning down, face coming close to House's ear. As much as he wanted to take himself away, he was effectively pinned against the wall, plastered between the paint and the rapist's body. The pain was so overwhelming, yet Lowell's sickly words still cut through to him.

"You're awfully quiet, Doctor" Lowell whispered, tightening his grip on House's collar. "A lot more quiet than your friend the other night. You should have heard him, crying just like a child. But I promise, that wasn't all he said. He was begging me to keep going, he was crying my name once he just gave me the chance. The boy was ready to give himself to me. Oh, if you had been there-"

Lowell was suddenly cut off by the fist that was directed upwards into his solar plexus, a rush of air exiting his mouth, effectively stopping the flow of words. House had been merely hoping that his fist would hit home, as his vision was still blurred, and he himself was still heaving for a decent breath of air. Even with all of his strength behind the strike, House knew that the fix was only temporary. Lowell had him grounded, trapped, and that one punch was the only means he had held for stopping the flow of vicious lies from Lowell's lips.

Aside from knowing its intended effects, House knew the consequences of his actions would be immediate, and less than pleasant. It took only a moment for Lowell to regain his stature, and take the hand that had been holding House's collar and transfer the same grip to his neck. Rather than being held by the gravity of his clothes, House was rendered immobile by an iron grip around his neck, effectively cutting off his air supply. Lowell gave another hearty chuckle, and continued his whispering.

"Oh, you just don't want to hear the truth, I think that's it, Dr. House. You don't want to know how your precious little boy wanted me so badly. You know that I had the pleasure of having him twice. Twice, can you imagine that? The sweet little Aussie crying for me until he was trembling. That's right, he was shaking at my touch. I bet you he didn't tell you that he came for me. He didn't, did he? Oh, the poor little boy could hardly handle me. He loved every second that we spent together."

"Liar" House muttered, trying to draw in air desperately as his vision started to tunnel. Unable to force himself from the wall, House felt his last line of defense still clutched weakly in the weathered fingers of his right hand. Fearing that he would be unable to maintain his consciousness much longer, he gripped the well-worn wood with all of his strength, and swung it in an arc until it collided with a loud smacking against the back of Lowell's head.

The grip on his throat was suddenly released as Lowell fell back, and House gasped hungrily for air. As soon as his vision cleared, and his breath had returned, he did something that he could not recall ever having done in his life before. He cried out for help, as loudly as he could.

"Help! Someone help me! I'm being attacked!" he screamed, hoping that the small bout of fighting had already roused a few, and praying that his screams did the rest. House's reliance on Lowell's neighbors was the only variable that he had left as a total toss-up. He had monitored everything carefully in this complex game that he had been playing, and now he relied on the humanity of the people a few walls away. Judging by the racket that they had made, coupled with House's pleas, they were guaranteed to garner some attention from those nearby.

Those were the only words that House had managed to get out before Lowell was back on the attack, hand wrapping like a vice around House's already battered neck, planting another fist in his bloodied face.

"Shut up! Shut up, you bastard!" Lowell roared, any sense of control over the situation suddenly gone. House would have used the cane, but Lowell knelt on his wrist, rendering him utterly immobile. This time, the grip was even tighter, and the edges of unconsciousness were swimming near within seconds. Just as House thought that he would slip under, the sound of a door opening came to his ears over the sound of Lowell's heavy breathing.

"What is going on out here?" a man yelled, seemingly in the distance. If House had the breath in his lungs to sigh in relief, he would have. The hand was released from his throat, and he fell limp against the floor, feeling the blood wash over his face, spitting it out as he tried to draw a full breath.

"This is none of your business" House heard Lowell yell, but it seemed that this was not the only neighbor that had been awakened by the commotion. A women's voice came over the sudden yelling.

"I called the police. Is someone injured? What happened?"

Then there was cursing and screaming, much of it from Lowell's end. But the hulking man had moved away from him, and the air around House was clear for just a moment. If his entire body wasn't aching, and his leg wasn't screaming, he might have stood and spit a gob of blood in Lowell's face. But everything was spinning around him, more violently than a bad trip, and all he could focus on was breathing and staying conscious. Lowell's body was replaced with that of another person, leaning over him, gently touching his arm.

"Sir, sir are you okay? The police and the paramedic s are on the way."

All House could do was smile a weak and bloody smile. He knew in that moment that he had won.

-H-O-U-S-E-

True to the faceless neighbor's words, the paramedics arrived within minutes, the police hot on their tails. From the amount of neighbors that had come pouring out of their apartment doors to House's cries, Lowell had become a caged animal. The people that had been his neighbors for years were now confronting him, staring with wide at his bloodstained fists, at the droplets of crimson spattering his shirt. Open accusations filled the air in loud yells, and there had been nothing that Lowell was able to say to defend himself, with a crumpled body beaten to a pulp in front of him.

There had been two women that had taken to caring for House in the brief period of time before professional care got there, and they had done an effective job at mothering, pressing a cool towel to his head and encouraging him to lie still while they took care of the blood draining from his nose. He had stared at the florescent lights at the top of the hallway, and although his whole body had been throbbing in pain and agony, he felt the sense of victory, of relief, above all else. He had taken the first step towards justice, and he had come out on top.

House now sat at the outer lip of the ambulance, allowing the paramedic to press a few bandages over the cuts that had been torn into his face. Between the application of bandages, the paramedic had been staring thoughtfully at the bruises that now encircled House's neck, almost as though they held some sort of secret. Lowell had been dragged away in handcuffs only minutes earlier for assault, but House was still struggling to draw a decent breath, finding a sharp pain in his right side, his lower ribcage. The paramedic seemed concerned by this, and on account of feeling incredibly dizzy, House didn't really try to push the man away.

"Sir, I think you should come with us to the hospital. It appears that you might have a concussion, and from your breathing, possibly a fractured or broken rib. I also want to make sure there isn't any damage to your airway from the trauma" the man insisted, but House merely reached for his cane, and tried to shoo the man off.

"It's just fractured, and there's no damage to my airway. Yes, I have a concussion, but aside from a few bruises and this damn nose, I'm not bleeding too many places. I'm a doctor, kid. I get that you're trying to do your job, but it's done now, and I'd like to go home." His throbbing head caused him to be much more polite than he normally would have been able to bear, but the sight of Lowell being handled less than kindly by the police was enough to appease him for the time being.

"The police will need your statement" the paramedic pleaded pathetically, and House just nodded, closing his eyes to the blinding lights that flashed in a rainbow of colors across the street.

"They'll get it, don't worry. And not just mine. The man that did this to me, he's going away for a very long time. If going with you gets this whole thing done faster, I'll go. Just don't turn on the damn sirens. My head is killing me."

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I know that I haven't updated in a while, and I hope you'll forgive the mild hiatus, but I'll be back to updating and wrapping this story up. I sincerely appreciate every follow, favorite, and review I get on this story. The fact that you all take the time to read it astounds me! Thank you all again, I hope that you enjoyed.**


	10. Chapter 10

"House! Where have you been?" Chase exclaimed with unexpected fervor, sitting bolt upright in his bed at the first sight of his employer. House resisted the urge to roll his eyes to the ceiling at such an outward display of emotion, although he knew that a signature grimace would have sufficed to portray his annoyance at such an outburst. He would have preferred to take that following moment of silence to draw in a deep breath, some preparation for handling the onslaught of questioning that he knew lay ahead, but the pain in his bandaged ribcage was far too great to accomplish such a simple task. Instead, he made his way over to the chair beside Chase's bed, and sat without a word, the strain lifted slightly from his body.

"Where were you?" Chase questioned once more, tilting his head as though he were a confused child, a naïve soul begging for answers. This sudden attachment was something that House had at least somewhat expected, with his frequent visits over the week. And now he had been gone for the better part of two days, forgoing a visit to the hospital where Chase lay in favor of larger objectives. It was certain that Chase had seen such an action as utter abandonment, stranded alone in a hospital bed, unmoving in agony. In this time of Chase's emotional need, it was unsurprising that the man was demanding some sort of affection, and had grown distraught from House's absence. Of course, before House was able to form any sort of response, Chase interrupted again, his eyes scanning House's face, and the butterfly bandages that pinched the gashes that had been cut in the diagnostician's skin.

"Oh my god, what happened to you? You look like you got hit by a truck. Did you get in a fight? What happened?" His voice was high pitched with concern as he asked, seemingly forgetting for the moment his own ailments. House merely yanked his collar back slightly, revealing to Chase the circle of purple and blue that ringed his neck, the thick imprints of fingers making a gruesome decoration on the elder man's skin.

"I decided that we should get matching tattoos, because I thought yours looked _totally_ awesome. It seemed like a really great idea, but in hindsight, maybe I should've drank a bit less." This usual display of sarcasm seemed to sober Chase quickly enougn, and House hoped that the familiarity of his attitude would allow Chase to play off the visible injuries as some sort of his typical behavior. But then he noticed Chase swallowing, straining the muscles of his throat, before recognition flickered in the young man's eyes.

"House, you didn't. You didn't do what I think you did. I swear to god, did you go after that maniac? Even after what I told you, and what he did to me? How could you?" It was easy to hear just how wounded Chase was by this realization, his eyes flicking back and forth between the bruises that covered House's exposed flesh. But another's emotions had never been a deterrent for House, merely another source of motivation. With a slight grimace, as though he were looking back on a particularly unpleasant memory, House shrugged his shoulders with a certain degree of nonchalance.

"Well, maybe you're right this time. He did do a number on me, and he did try to keep true to his promise. He said he was going to kill me, then go to kill you. Unfortunately, I knew that Cuddy wouldn't take too well to losing two of her employees, including her brightest one, so I couldn't let him do that. Right now he's sitting in a New York jail cell, and I'm pressing charges for assault. That won't get him more than a fine for my hospital bill and maybe a few nights in a prison cell, but I know what can make him stay there. You need to submit an official report against him, and testify if needed." House finished, knowing that his tone had been both flat and serious. It would have to be enough to get the message across, for the reaction he received was less than promising.

Chase stared back at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, acute disbelief evident in his visage. It took a moment, but Chase pulled his slack jaw closed, swallow hesitantly. Only then did the tremors begin, shivers working their way across his body, uncertainty lacing its way across Chase's face.

"You know I can't do that. I can't. I'll lose all respect as a doctor" Chase tried to defend, shaking his head vigorously in protest. House merely scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically and tapping his cane against the floor with the rhythm of a steady metronome. The look of annoyance that he had held morphed into a look of disgust, as though someone had flipped a switch when Chase's words hit his ears.

"Damn your reputation" the diagnostician snarled, slamming his open palm into the side of Chase's hospital bed, causing it to shake. "You aren't going to lie here rotting away for the rest of your life, because that would be the real waste. Who cares what happened to you? Hell, if you ever want to go public with this, you can be the next sexually-assaulted-doctors poster boy. Hell, you could form a support group, have your own TV show. You have the pretty face, at least you will, once those bruises clear up. Get over yourself, Chase. You're not the first one that Lowell took advantage of, but if you testify against him, I promise that you will be the last."

"It's not that easy," Chase argued, eyebrows raising in astonishment as he protested. "You have no idea what I went through. You have no idea what I'm going through. I've already been humiliated enough. I don't need a courtroom to hear what that- what that bastard did to me." The last words seemed to catch in Chase's throat ever so slightly, but House ignored the stutter so he could spit back a response.

"Who cares if I know or not? Experience, or lack thereof, doesn't suddenly make me an idiot. Anyone with half a mind could see that you're being completely irrational. You're a big boy, aren't you? Well, put on your big boy panties and do what you have to do. If you sulk here for the rest of your life, you're never going to work as a doctor again, you're never going to make a damn thing of yourself. I've done all I can for you, and you should at least do me the favor of finishing the job," House growled, to which Chase sobered. The Aussie's eyes roamed over House's face, taking in the craters that had formed between the swollen masses of bruising. It was easy to see the points of contact of Lowell's fists, the various colors blossomed up over skin like a garish painting. By now, Chase's own bruises were starting to yellow at the edges, creating a galaxy of colors that served as a sick reminder to what transpired.

After a few moments longer, House fuming in silence all the while, Chase gave a small nod, his hair shifted as he did so, some smaller strands falling down in front of his eyes. "Alright," he whispered, closing his eyes in an obvious attempt to stop his voice from faltering again. "I'll do it. I'll do whatever it takes to put that motherfucker behind bars. But you have to promise me something."

"And what would that be?" House questioned. For a moment he was intrigued with deep curiosity, but also relieved, for Chase was finally complying with his request. A few tense seconds passed before Chase opened his mouth again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, very faint and shallow, but still present.

"Promise that you'll be there. If I have to sit through hours in court, you do too. And that also means you deal with the lawyer. I hate lawyers, I can't stand them. And sometimes I can't stand you, so I think this means we'll break even. Those are my conditions." While House was relieved to hear demands that were feasible, he couldn't help but groan, imagining hours cramped up in the seats of a courtroom, leg pinched uncomfortably, listening to men trying to defend either their crimes or their right to a sound existence. The circumstances were always unpleasant, and from his own series of issues over the years, House was not unfamiliar with a courthouse or with lawyers.

As he reminisced and mulled over the topic, House could feel his face pinching into a display of disgust and contempt. Eyes darting over to Chase, it was clear that the intensivist was concerned that his conditions weren't going to be accepted. Although his attitude was still soured by the prospects, House knew that he would do anything that Chase needed at this point, including being a reluctant item of support during such difficult times. Swallowing his pride, but not his attitude, House gave a short nod.

"Fine, I'll go to court with you. I'll pick out the damn lawyer too. Happy?" House hissed the last word, hoping that it would sound as vicious as his words usually did, but the menace fell flat as he trailed off. And it was with this that Chase finally seemed somewhat content, the strained muscles in his face suddenly relaxing. At the same time, he took a hand and rubbed it over the outside of his cast while he drew in a deep breath. With narrowed eyes, House watched this strange motion, and then saw a smile split across Chase's face, a wide smile.

"Is there any chance someone got that beating on tape? Lowell's huge. I bet he totally kicked your ass," Chase joked, a hint of laughter slipping into his voice. If it weren't for the cruel words that Chase had spoken, House would have been taken aback at the sudden turn of attitude. But instead he kept his eyes narrowed, and his face screwed into an expression of displeasure.

"And here I thought that getting beat until I fractured a rib would be enough for you. But it's never good enough, is it? You're like a bratty little child," House commented with a scowl. At the same time, there was no true force behind the words. Even if it was at his own expense, he was somewhat glad to see a spark ignited in the surgeon's eyes once more. The joke did remind him of his various aches, and he remembered looking up into Lowell's fiery eyes, black edging around his vision, and knew with a resolute acceptance that he would stick with Chase until the very end. If being supportive meant bearing the weight of less-than-kind jokes, House figured he could grit his teeth and take it.

Before either of them had another chance to spit another lighthearted comment, a nurse entered the room behind them, her voice light and cheerful as she announced her presence.

"Dr. Chase, you have another visitor," the woman offered with a smile, and ushered in another man. House didn't even have the chance to turn around completely before the figure entered, and a familiar face surveyed the hospital room with a disapproving glare, eyebrows knitted together, lips pursed in an eternal frown. Once more, House was not the first to blurt something out, as Chase immediately let a protest fly free from his lips, voice filled with surprise and displeasure.

"Foreman! What are you doing here?"

To such an indignant welcome, Foreman folded his arms, sauntering up to the side of the bed with an obvious flash of distaste gleaming from his eyes. Giving a signature, gruff grunt, Foreman glowered as he spit out a response.

"I guess I could ask you two the same thing." House could hear the betrayal that radiated from his employee's tone, though that emotion was slightly buried beneath a disgruntled annoyance. Rather than letting Chase take over with a vicious, emotional defense, House put up the usual barbed tongue that he typically displayed and gave a rebuke of his own.

"Now that's really none of your business, is it? Y'know, patient confidentiality and all. Now, if I'm not mistaken, you have a job that you should be at. Unless, of course, you want to lose that job. That's something that would be up to your employer, isn't it?" House questioned this, lacing every word with his attitude until it was practically dripping with sarcasm. House knew that he couldn't risk showing a moment of weakness by turning around and checking on Chase, however tempting it was. The anxiety and tension had almost been relieved, but then one of the last people Chase needed had to come barging in. Now House knew, his stomach stewing in anger and regret, that he would have to work to remedy this as soon as possible.

It seemed that even his response wasn't enough to bring Foreman to back down. Staring down at Chase, Foreman looked over the various injuries that presented themselves on the tan skin, his dark eyes lingering for a few extra moments over the white plaster exterior of the bulky cast.

"I have a right to know why my boss has absolutely abandoned me, don't I? And why one of my coworkers has just disappeared? Hell, maybe I even give a shit about these people. What's the deal, House? Chase?" The words were suddenly fueled by nothing but anger, obviously a rage that had been building for some time. Before he could formulate an adequately emotional response, House was forced to yield to Chase, whose soft voice poised a question of its own, nearly timid in nature.

"How'd you even find us?"

"Well I'm not an idiot," Foreman spit with a blaze of contempt "I figured that if you weren't at your house, you were at the hospital, because god forbid that there isn't some amount of trouble or drama that you're involved in. After the third day I knew you weren't out on vacation, because you never take vacation. You're too busy kissing House's ass to care about taking any time to yourself, isn't that right? So that left the idea that you were sick. And if you weren't at Princeton-Plainsboro, you would be at the next nearest hospital, Princeton General. So I asked to take off early, made my way down, and found you two sitting here in a steaming pile of bullshit and lies. Now tell me what actually happened."

Surprisingly, the harsh voice softened as Foreman offered up his final opportunity for an explanation. Though Chase's eyes sparkled with fear, House knew that he wouldn't breach the younger man's privacy. What Chase wanted to share now was up to him; especially regarding giving such information to a coworker. Without saying so much as a word, it seemed that Chase understood the weight that was suddenly being placed on him, the right to share what he went through, or withhold such information from another's ears.

Under Foreman's steel cold gaze, it seemed that Chase was sweating, his chest suddenly rising and falling at a much more rapid rate. The heart rate monitor suddenly spiked, the numbers steadily climbing. Fortunately, the newly arrived doctor was not ignorant to this fact, eyeing the machine carefully before turning his gaze back to the intensivist.

"Uh-" Chase stammered, trying to force words out of his mouth. "Foreman, I, uh, I had an accident. There was an accident, an incident really, just one of those things that happens, and you see-" once more, he choked on his words, and House could see the youngest doctor clenching a fist with his good hand, knuckles turning white under the strain. If it was even possible, his heart rate was still rising, and his body was on the verge of trembling. Sitting silently, House was seconds away from a much needed intervention, when Foreman himself stepped back in, adding some words that were surprisingly gentle.

"Alright, I get it. Bad shit happens sometimes. You don't have to tell me. I guess what's more important is if you're alright." Foreman pulled a halfhearted smile onto his face, obviously forcing the look for Chase's sake, but it was also obvious that the intensivist didn't take the sudden display of kindness for granted. It was as though a collective breath was let out, and the tension in the room slowly eased.

"Hey, look at me, I got beat up too," House added in, trying to take even more heat away from Chase, who looked like he needed no more stress for the time being. To this comment, Foreman rolled his eyes, and gave a final look down at Chase whilst ignoring House completely.

"If you decide you ever want to tell me, you can. Let me know if you want Cameron to come visit you. She's real worried about you. I didn't tell her I found you two yet, but I can change that. Just let me know," Foreman offered, tone evened out to his usual neutral. Chase nodded, clearly growing more relaxed by the second, grateful that he had dodged another bullet.

"I don't want her to see me like this. Maybe in a few days. But not now. Thank you, really, for coming to visit me," Chase replied humbly, to which Foreman shook his head, a genuine smile coming over his face. It was a strange sight to see on the usually sober-faced man, but it wasn't unpleasant.

"Well, I guess you owe me one," Foreman joked in a flat tone, to which Chase gave a weak chuckle. While House normally had no tolerance for such matters of lightheartedness, especially when there was work to be done, he could forgive this once.

There was always a time for work. There was not always so much time for healing. Whatever brief respite from pain that Chase was offered, however poor such humor truly was, House would gladly welcome it. There was a long and painful road ahead, one riddled with danger and tears and terror. But for now, he would allow them to laugh. That was one thing that he couldn't bring himself to take away. And for a brief moment, he was tempted to smile as well.

Sensibly, he swallowed the annoying urge, and reached for the phone on his hip while Foreman and Chase made cheerful small talk. There were some calls he needed to make, and things that needed to get done. As Foreman proved, he couldn't remain AWOL indefinitely, and neither could Chase. There was work to be done, and House was ready to begin.

 **Thank you all for reading, and also for being so patient! I appreciate every single follow, favorite, and review that I have received on this story so far. The support is absolutely astounding. As always, if you have any questions, comments, concern, or critique, feel free to drop a review or shoot me a PM- my inbox is always open! Thank you all so so much, and I hope that you enjoy! Have a wonderful rest of your day.**


	11. Chapter 11

"Hey, House," Chase mumbled, his voice muffled by the door that separated them. Tapping his fingers against his cane with a hint of impatience, House tried to swallow the throaty snarl that was threatening to work its way into his voice.

"What is it?" He asked with a much softer inflection that he would have preferred, stifling his irritation for the sake of maintaining the relative pleasantry between himself and his damaged employee. It was as though the gel in his hair, unfamiliar and sticky, was smothering his fiery attitude as well as his stray hairs. There were few things in the world that House would ever try to compose himself so thoroughly for, and a day in court was one of them. The arraignment was set to begin in just another three hours, but they faced delay as Chase was struggling to get dressed on his own. These days, he most always did.

Although the plaster cast covered from his elbow to all but the very tips his fingers, Chase had been forced into rigorous physical therapy to accustom him to using the left side of his body. Despite the confidence he had been claiming, there was still enough of a struggle for Chase to perform even the most mundane of simple actions. It seemed that buttoning shirts was still enough of a mountain for the doctor to tackle on his own. Having already spend a fair deal of time behind closed doors trying to get his outfit together, the tension that hung thick in the room made it evident enough that Chase was struggling. Only after a few more soft grunts did it seem that Chase was finally willing to cave in and ask for help. His voice came through the door softly, almost hesitantly.

"I was wondering if I could have some help," Chase murmured in clear reluctance before opening the door just a crack, his wide eyes and flushed red cheeks peering out. Typically, House would have made some comment on Chase's new dependency, but most jokes on his sorry state of affairs had been exhausted in the past weeks. Seeing Chase's embarrassed face was enough to sober the diagnostician's attitude for the time being, or at least enough to let him address the matter at hand.

White it seemed that Chase had managed well enough with his light blue button up shirt, as it was a bit wrinkled and crooked, his failure rang out in the dark blue tie that was still draped around his neck. The fabric had clearly been worked at with the inexperienced fingers of a non-dominant hand, but it had since been let loose around Chase's neck. The two tail ends stretched out, collar on the shirt still upturned, a still shot in the midst of defeat. House shook his head just a fraction at the sight before him, shifting his weight onto his good leg while hooking the edge of his cane on his wrist.

With worn hands, House grabbed the tie and straightened it, making the motions deftly. It had been some time since he had tied the silky fabric for himself or for anyone else, and he was grateful that the movements still came instinctually. He favored a more casual appearance himself, but looking at his handiwork, he was pleased with the respectable knot that he centered under Chase's chin. With one downward motion he smoothed the last of the wrinkles, and pulled the collar down over the finished product to complete the look. Eyes lingering on Chase's neck just a second too long, House remembered the bruises that had circled it just weeks earlier, and the matching ones that had ringed his own.

Chase made a curt nod, a word of unspoken thanks that House was unwilling to acknowledge as he swiftly turned his back. His own demeanor might have been cold, but it was at the very least both comfortable and confident. In contrast, Chase was quaking like a leaf, the nerves coming off of him so strongly that House swore he could smell it. The courthouse was a mere thirty minutes away from the hotel where they had come to stay. The trial itself was being held in New York, in the depths of New York city. Not only was it Lowell's home state, but it was where the crimes had been committed. As criminal law dictated, Chase and House were obligated to make their way to the jurisdiction which the crimes had been committed, despite the great inconvenience it caused them.

After both Chase and House had spoken up against the supposed good doctor, other young men had come forward. How the word had spread, House didn't ask, and Chase definitely didn't tell. Many of the victims coming forward had been assaulted many years ago, but as New York had no statute of limitations, the tables were turned ever more in their favor. The world had seemingly revolted against Lowell in a matter of days, and House was quite satisfied in the knowledge that Lowell had been uprooted from his comfortable lifestyle, just like the criminal scum he was.

Unfortunately, Chase was the only victim that would be able to provide any concrete evidence outside of his testimonial. While he was still bitterly angry about House running the rape kit against his will, Chase and his lawyer had both admitted that the evidence would prove to be critical in their court appearance. Also in their favor, a few of the other victims had evidence that they needed medical care coinciding with dates of medical conferences that Lowell was present at, which when backed with testimony, would be nearly irrefutable in court. There was more than enough evidence against the man, but the lawyer had given Chase the worst news from the very start; Chase would have to give a full testimony in court in order to assure that Lowell was convicted. He would have to stand and recall as much as he could of the most horrific event of his life, and stand strong as he was questioned, a task that House could only equate to torture.

To the thought of making himself so openly vulnerable, particularly in the same room as his rapist, Chase had been less than thrilled. To try and soothe his clear nerves, House had reminded him of the promise he made; he was with him, not just until the end of the trial, but until Chase declared he was strong enough to make it on his own. Although it had been difficult to make time for the intensivist, as House had been forced to return to work, he had managed to stay actively involved in Chase's recovery. While both Foreman and Cameron had been spared the details, they had been informed that Chase had suffered rather serious injuries, and had been forced to take some time off of work to heal.

For Chase's general future in medicine, prospects were nothing but grim; his hand was what could have been deemed "damaged beyond repair." He still had weeks before he was out of his cast, and months, or even years, of physical therapy ahead of him. The exact nature of his future was still foggy, for it was unclear if the hand would ever regain enough function to pick up a mug, much less a scalpel. But something had become clear to House, something that he would never admit aloud; without Chase, the hospital wasn't quite the same. Not just House, but much of the staff pined for the smooth-talking intensivist, and his absence was a gaping hole that hadn't been filled in many weeks.

However, the man that everyone missed and yearned for wasn't quite back, not even in spirit. Chase was still skittish, tired, and far less humorous than his prior self. There was a hollow look in his eyes, a dark pit that would open every time he lost focus, staring off dreamily at a wall as though it were spitting demons. Sometimes his whole body shook as though he were caught in the thralls of a nightmare, and the Aussie would shake his head, muttering to himself. It was almost as if he was trying to rid himself of bothersome ghosts. Those phantoms were very real to the surgeon, House knew, but it was unsettling to see a man fighting his invisible demons and losing.

Just for the sake of giving the younger man some confidence, House led the way out of the hotel room, all the way into the cab that they had called, without so much as casting Chase a sidelong glance. The courthouse was just down the way, but in New York, the travel time would be exponentially heightened. Chase had whined that they couldn't just walk, but House had silenced him with a few gestures to his cane and his usual gnarled grimace. Thus the two were involuntarily confined in the small yellow cab, pretending they could ignore the stench of the city, and the impending reality that lay ahead.

-H-O-U-S-E-

Chase straightened his tie with his left hand one last time, and House was able to see the man's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. The lawyer beside him was cool, calm, her notes stacked in front of her, nearly as perfect as the tight bun on the back of her head. The choice for representation had been simple to make, particularly after asking some of House's contacts in the area. Without a doubt, Chase was seated beside one of the best attorneys that New York had to offer. Her level composure made up for Chase's anxiety, and for once, House was grateful for the legal presence, a strong hand to level the playing field and put Lowell away for good. While House would step up to speak later, giving his own retelling of the course of events, Chase was the focus of this case.

Tapping his foot, House looked at the rustling in the seats, noting that there were more than the usual scarce offerings at typical court proceedings. It wasn't hard to profile the audience that had arrived over the last thirty minutes, a steady trickle of onlookers. It was nothing but an array of men, Chase's age or a few years younger, sitting alone, clearly uncomfortable in their seats. Some had suits on, others had opted for a more casual style of dress. Some were checking their watches, but all of them looked as though they would rather be anywhere else. House knew who they were; they too were victims, others who had lived the brutal reality that Chase had been forced to experience.

Just as House was preparing to check his own watch in a display of impatience, praying that this event would just move forward, get itself over with, the creaking sound of the courthouse doors drew everyone's attention. Heads pivoted, all straining to get a look at the person walking through the doors, silently hoping that it would be someone that would call the arraignment to begin. Included in this number was Chase, looking anxiously over his shoulder to get a look at the new arrival.

Upon seeing the man walking through the door, House's blood ran cold. The orange jumpsuit was unmistakable, and so was the face of the man wearing it. Fortunately, the smug grin that Lowell had once carried was wiped away, replaced with a scowl as his chains rattled together, marking the prisoner's entry to the trial. A chic lawyer walked in ahead of him in a sick procession, and House already held contempt for the thin line that her lips made at they pursed against one another.

Flicking his eyes over to Chase, House noted how his employee shifted nervously, shoulders shaking in terrified anticipation as his abuser grew closer. The lawyer gently rested her hand on Chase's shoulder, a small touch of comfort in a courtroom that was filled with testaments and memories of unspeakable things. House was relieved that this lawyer was not only competent in court, but had been gentle enough to guide Chase through the process with a firm, yet comforting hand. She had finally been able to provide some support that neither House nor any of the other doctors had been able to provide; a confidential source of comfort, of relief, and a well of advice that Chase could speak to honestly. While House had heard more than his fair share of Chase's struggles, it was welcome to have an external source of comfort and relief for the intensivist.

But here, in this moment, as Chase's rapist took up a seat in a table just a few feet away, there was no amount of comfort that a simple touch could provide. Nothing could possibly negate what Chase had to be feeling with his own living nightmare just a breath away. The way that the young doctor leaned just a sliver to the right as Lowell walked past, the stench of fear that hung in the room, told the story without so much as a word. The fact that Chase had to sit in front of a judge, staring down at the attending parties as he told his own account, was a crime in and of itself. But House knew that this was the only way that justice would ever see that Lowell was put away for the rest of his miserable life.

The room was quiet, but the judge seemed to straighten in her chair once Lowell was seated, and House could tell by the look on her face that she was ready to begin speaking. Chase must have noticed this as well, for he turned back just slightly over his shoulder, making eye contact with House for a flickering moment. The glance was far too brief for House to react, but the older doctor could still feel the silent call for help passing through the air between them. Biting down on the inside of his cheek, House knew that this was only the beginning of a long road. The judge cleared her throat, and House looked up at her, knowing that another uphill battle was just beginning.

-H-O-U-S-E-

The first thing that House did as he hobbled out of the courtroom was grab his pill bottle, twisting the lid off and jamming a few of the tablets down to the back of his throat, feeling them scrape at his esophagus as he swallowed them with hungry desperation. His leg always ached after being stuck in the same position for too long, and it had been pure agony to sit still, daresay politely, as the arraignment had proceeded. Even during the short recess, there wasn't enough Vicodin in the world that would have allowed House's leg to settle. The rest of the afternoon brought him to a brink of pain that had rendered him nearly delirious with its intensity. He had sworn that if the hearing had gone another five minutes longer, he would have had to duck out and wait outside until the proceedings had concluded.

Stuffing the orange prescription bottle back into his pocket, House limped over to a nearby bench, gently massaging at the small crater in his leg until he saw Chase's narrow frame come out of the courtroom, nearly shielded by his lawyer completely. In the last few weeks, it had been painfully obvious that Chase had been losing weight, and even though he was supposedly working to recover, it seemed that his appetite had yet to rebound. The skin on his face seemed sunken in, his arms thin and feeble, as though he were starving. Any time that they were together, House noticed that Chase only picked at his meals, claiming that his appetite was nonexistent. It was a sorry sight to see, but House knew that today it was only accentuated, for the only suit that Chase even owned hung loosely off his shoulders. The light grey fabric, an expensive garment that was clearly tailored, had become too large for the shell of a man that Chase had become.

House forced himself to swallow down any of the negativity he threatened to project, waiting for his Chase to spot him and make his way over. It took just a few seconds before the blonde noticed him with those lifeless eyes, and House watched him turn to his lawyer with a question on his lips. The woman gave him a warm smile as she nodded her confirmation, clearly quite happy with how the hearing had gone so far. Not only was she warm and comforting to her client outside of the courtroom, but House had been able to admire her ferocity and tenacity in the courtroom. She was certainly an excellent selection, and those that recommended her hadn't been lying when they said that she was the very best there was to offer.

"Hey, House, how're you feeling?" Chase asked as he walked up to his wery mentor, a façade of a smile playing on his lips. Knowing that a fake smile was at least better than no smile at all, House gave a lopsided grimace in mocking return, and pushed his weight into his cane so that he could stand up and face the intensivist eye to eye.

"I would've been better if the torrent of formalities and bullshit had ended two hours ago, but I'm fine. How about you?" The gentle inquiry hadn't stopped feeling strange on his lips, but the fact that it felt foreign was no excuse for him to abstain from asking. He knew that no one else was going to ask the question, so he had resolved himself to allow that much tenderness to leave his tongue, if only to ensure that Chase would not break any further. It was the one thing that he had allowed them both: slivers of tenderness that neither would acknowledge once they had passed. Sniffing, as though he were choking back an onslaught of sorrow, Chase hung his head slightly.

"I'm feeling better than I thought I would. But I was dying there towards the end. I haven't had any pain meds since the hearing started this morning," Chase muttered, eyebrows coming together in what House could guess was both pain and frustration. He had been taking painkillers to mitigate the immense pain that he had been experiencing following his reconstructive surgery, and it was clear that he had become somewhat reliant on their sweet release. House had been watching this new behavior closely, if only to ensure that his most promising employee wouldn't come to mirror his own bad habits. For the time being, he was satisfied that Chase hadn't been completely tempted by the sultry purr of addiction. That said, he was supportive of the fact that the medication was providing some relief from what had to be agony, and reached into his other pocket to reach the pills that he had been holding for his employee.

"Well, I'll have to be honest, and I can say that things are going very well," the attorney spoke up as she walked up to the couple, a soft smile on her lips. Chase's fingers pulled the medication from the prescription bottle before he looked up at her, and House could nearly feel the Aussie's relief at these words of reassurance. "I know that it's early in the trial, and that it's frustrating he didn't plead guilty, but they never do. However, I can say that this case is definitely in our favor. Strong witnesses, strong evidence, DNA evidence, all of it plain enough for anyone to see. You did well today, Robert. We just have to keep pressing." She had made this same statement before, but for some reason, hearing it after the first large step in the trial made it feel even more real. Chase swallowed the medication without even glancing around for water, and it took him a moment, but he put a small smile on his face for the lawyer's benefit.

"Yeah, I suppose so. Thanks for today," he said, voice so cheerful that he almost sounded happy. House figured that the smile was just a mask for some small degree of relief. Either way, it seemed to be enough to sate the attorney for the time being.

"That's my job. But we're done for today, so go ahead and get some rest. I'll be in touch later tonight about getting the upcoming dates and times finalized. Promise me that you'll go back to your room and relax for a little bit later? Maybe watch a movie or two, or just go to sleep, alright?" The lawyer asked this with a tight smile, because all three present knew that Chase was hardly sleeping, even with the help of the medication. But as it was, he humored her with a small smile that mirrored her own.

"Of course, it's the least I can do for you."

As soon as she had shaken House's hand and given Chase a gentle touch to the shoulder as a final reassurance, she walked off down the long hallway of the courthouse, heels clicking against the lacquered floor. Even though she was out of earshot within a few steps of the two doctors, both of them waited wordlessly until she had disappeared down the hallway at the far end of the building.

"Do you want to grab a cab back to the hotel, or go out to eat?" Chase asked, though by the weariness in his eyes, House knew that all the intensivist really wanted to do was go back to his bed and sleep. It was clear that Chase valued the thought that House cared for his input, so both humored the small-talk long enough to clarify that it was truly Chase's desire to go back to his room. After a moment of knowing silence, Chase nodded.

"Let's go back to the hotel." The words fell flat, if not tainted just slightly be relief.

"What, you don't want to go see the wonderful sights of the city?" House mocked in a flair of his usual colors, nodding his head towards the window with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. The cloudy New York sky was anything but appealing, and both of them knew that their mutual pain was enough to make even the thought of a trip around the city nauseating. Chase only offered a fleeting smile as he grabbed his phone to call for a ride, shoulders slouching. House could sympathize with the exhaustion emanating from the younger doctor, and knew that the ride couldn't come soon enough. Today was just another step, one more mile on the mountain they were climbing towards the distant summit of resolution. House knew that despite his weariness, Chase still had some fight left in him, and wouldn't back down yet. And as long as Chase was still ready to fight, House was ready to fight with him.

 **Hello everyone! I know that it's been about a year and a half since this story updated, so thank you for any old followers for sticking with it this long! And thank you to everyone that just powered through this miserably long fic for the first time! I appreciate all of the love and support, even throughout my unexpected hiatus. This story should be drawing to a close soon (and I promise a bit more action next chapter!). Thanks again to everyone for hanging in there on this journey that I've prolonged- Chase will get his happy ending soon (or will he?) Wishing everyone the best, and thanks again!**


	12. Chapter 12

"That's all, your honor," the defense attorney said, her voice clipped and curt, the slightest air of smugness radiating from where she stood. House watched her give Chase a sharp stare as she returned to the table where Lowell was sitting, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor. Chase's brow was lined with small beads of sweat, but his eyes were empty as he stared down at the floor, face so still that it gave away no indication of what he was feeling. It was clear that he had felt the cold loo he had been given, and he let his chin drop ever so slightly. In those silent moments, House could see his shoulders move in the rhythm of stifled sigh, a gentle stutter of breath. This last round of questioning had been tense, and it had been difficult to listen to Chase answer such a personal series of inquiries.

The novels always described tears as diamonds, or as liquid silver, sparkling as they ran down pale and tired skin, a form of art made with the human body. But House didn't see the single trail of moisture down Chase's left cheek as anything beautiful or spectacular, not as art to be revered. He saw it as a fracture, a deep fissure in worn earth, the indication of a soul split wide open and bare for the world to see. His heavy heart had been torn from his chest, and a jury was permitted to peer in upon the darkest fears of a broken man. The testimony that spilled from Chase's mouth had been as raw and heavy as magma pouring from split ground, ash billowing from a dormant giant throughout the sickening retelling.

Chase stood up from his seat, eyes still pointed at the ground, as he was dismissed from the stand. His return to sit next to his attorney was clearly a retreat, a desperate surrender back to the only safety he could carve for himself in the cold courtroom. Anyone could tell that he was growing weary, worn and broken from the legal process that had dragged on far too long. House had sworn he had hear Lowell's attorney faltering as she claimed that her client was innocent of all charges, as though she knew her words were lies. He knew that the evidence against Lowell was practically impenetrable, and his own defenses were weak, at best. But they were still in the trenches, fighting for justice, against a man that had too much time and too much money.

The jury had been growing restless. The fact that they were present was a miracle; more than nine in ten criminals pleaded guilty before going to trial. Even then, only a fraction of those persisted to the point that they sat before a judge and jury, facing a criminal trial in all of its strained and exhausted proceedings. In this case, the fact that both the prosecutor and the defendant had pockets deep enough to fund their lawyers was a critical distinction.

At this point, however, a trial was torturous for all involved. There was not so much as a shadow of a doubt that Lowell was guilty. There were witnesses that had come forward to admit they heard Chase screaming, but had been too cowardly to investigate. There were others that confessed they had seen Lowell and Chase walk off together, but had thought nothing of it at the time. There were security tapes that captured Chase staggering back to his hotel room, his hand mangled and bloody, body hunched and folded as he walked. But still, Lowell insisted on fighting under the plea of 'not guilty', questioning the legitimacy of the timestamps on the tapes, questioning the recollection of eyewitnesses, and even trying to wear down Chase through a series of unnecessary personal questions.

"Guilty." The moment that the words passed the judge's lips was a solemn one, a breath of truth frozen in time. House had held no doubt that the outcome of the trial would fall in Chase's favor, but he had expected there to be more weight when he heard the verdict. But no, the singular word swelled in the air and burst in a silent exhalation, diffusing the tension that had been passed between all present in the court room. There were no cinematic effects, as House had almost expected there to be. Some people sighed. Shoulders relaxed. A few half-smiles crept onto the faces of the witnesses that had testified, and the jury shared a collective moment of contentedness.

Chase slumped over in his seat, cradling his casted hand close to his chest, and his attorney put her hand on his back, running it back and forth over his shoulders. House wished he could go over and give his employee a similarly comforting gesture, but knew that he had done enough for the time being. Chase knew he was there, watching, supporting, pushing him along through the entire battle. When it had mattered most, House had been there for him.

Maybe they would embrace in the hallway, or perhaps not at all. Maybe they would stand in silence and chew down their painkillers together, no sounds except broken tablets against dry teeth to span the gap between them. Maybe they would pretend that they were moved with emotion, instead of facing the truth that the path to justice had left them hollow.

Maybe, perhaps, they would go out and stand in the streets of a rainy New York and despise living just as much as before.

-H-O-U-S-E-

"Concurrent sentences," Chase muttered beneath his breath, as though he were saying something filthy. His fingertips brushed idly against the glass full of cool liquid amber, the frothy bubbles displacing as his digits moved the drink back and forth, just a few millimeters in either direction. His mouth was twisted into a tight grimace. "Twenty-five years, with possibility of parole. All of his damn sentences served at once."

"What did you expect? It's not like he murdered you," House retorted, his upper lip curling into the shadow of a snarl. He knew his response didn't hold any real bite, but he was tired, and the alcohol hadn't begun to numb the static in his skull. He was ready to escape the monotony that litigation had ensnared him in, but Chase was clinging to the result of the sentencing with a rabid ferocity.

"He murdered my career," Chase spit back, just as bitter as House ever was. "He stole months of my life."

"No one's saying he didn't," House tried to level, taking another drink from his own glass. Internally, he was just as upset by the news that Lowell would likely die a free man. But by now, he was used to walking on eggshells with a bitter intensivist that had become both volatile and unpredictable. "You got the best-case scenario. He's guilty. He's going to prison, serving the maximum sentence for the crimes he was convicted. Your attorney was even flirting with you at the end." But the humor was gone from Chase's eyes, the only flickers remaining as empty embers of anger.

"And it's not good enough. They're saying that he's a doctor, that he's saved lives, that the world is a better place with him in it. Whose world is better? Not mine! Not anyone else he's destroyed. He's not the misguided hero his lawyer was trying to make him out to be."

"They'd rather see him as an oncologist than a rapist, just like I'd rather see you as an intensivist instead of an unemployed opiate addict." House toyed with the silence for a moment, knowing that his words were cruel, but he felt no need to retract them. "Doesn't feel so good when you're the butt of the joke now, does it?"

"Cut the shit, House." Chase let his now-shaggy hair cover his face as he stared down at the table, unable to meet his former employer's eyes. "You just hate seeing me turn into the same thing you see in the mirror. A sorry excuse for a man, that's what I am, and that's what you are. I guess misery loves company."

"You don't get to blame me anymore." House gestured to the TV playing soundlessly at the back of the bar. "Look at the news. It's been three months since the verdict. It's been more than half a year since you were attacked. Life has gone on in the world outside of this case. It's time to get your life back on track. Frankly, it should have been on track a long time ago. He didn't destroy you, you're just wallowing in self-pity."

Chase's left fist banged down on the table, causing both of their drinks to slosh around in their glasses as the old wood shuddered back and forth. His right fingertips gripped his drink just tight enough to keep it upright through his fit of anger. He still hadn't taken a single sip.

"House, I'm trying. I'm doing my physical therapy every day for hours and I can hardly keep up. I'm sitting in that damn office talking to that woman about my feelings and smelling her insufferable perfume for two hours a week. I'm doing all that I can. I can't go back to my job yet, not like this." Chase looked up, and his eyes were red. It was a familiar sight by now, one that had stopped causing House as much pain as it once did. He could hardly remember how Chase used to be, or if there had ever been life in his shadowy eyes. There was familiarity in his sorrowful visage, a weary mouth that hadn't smiled in far too long.

"I didn't say you aren't trying. I just need you to stop acting as though your life is over because it's not going the direction you want." Absentmindedly running his fingers over the crater in his leg, House turned to reflecting on the few months of his life where he was convinced he'd be unable to carry on in his career, much less living. And as he had taken to when it came to conversing with Chase, he moved to speak from the heart. One wouldn't have been able to guess his sincerity from the acid in his tone, but he still spoke genuinely. "You want to work at the hospital, right?"

To this question, Chase stared back at him blankly, and House rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Dear God, I pity your professors in med school. Do the math. You're a medical professional, aren't you, doctor? Just because you lose one hand doesn't mean you lost your mind. That said, you will if you keep popping pills like it's your day job. Remember that not every doctor out there specializes like you did."

"There's no place for me in a hospital, much less as your employee. I had something that was once in a lifetime, and he ruined it." The last words came out with a whimper, but House had just about had his fill of self-pity for the evening.

"Someone else always ruins us. That's life. It sucks. Grow up, Chase. Your story doesn't have to end here if you don't want it to. Start working again. Doesn't have to be surgery. Doesn't have to be diagnostic medicine. Stand in the pharmacy and push pills into bottles all day if you have to, I don't care. But if you don't at least try, I'm going to put someone else in your place."

Silence. Chase blinked, and the redness in his eyes made them seem much darker and much more sad than they had been just a moment ago. When he whispered, his voice had a sullen rasp.

"What do you mean, my place?" Chase asked. House scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"You thought that I would keep Foreman and Cameron without finding some sort of replacement? If I didn't think you were coming back, I would have replaced you by now. The longer you wait to get back to work, the harder my job is, and that pisses me off. Your place is waiting for you, but only if you show me you still give a shit. Lowell is gone. He's done for. Twenty-five years, life, it doesn't matter. You have to move on and build yourself a future, or you'll be forgotten." Silence again. It was all true; House had been waiting for Chase's inevitable rebound, for his full recovery. Neither had come yet. Now he was offering the last and final push he was willing to give the broken intensivist.

Chase's throat tensed as he swallowed, looked down, and swallowed again. His right hand twitched, the gnarled scar tissue rippling as the worn muscles worked beneath patchwork skin. Shaking fingers wrapped around the body of the glass hesitantly, and after a moment, the grip seemed sure. Raising the drink, causing it to tremor with an uncertain hand, Chase gave a solemn nod.

"I suppose I can drink to that."

-H-O-U-S-E-

House's face was twisted into a visage of bitter irritation, his eyes squinted as he brought the stack of papers closer to his eyes. Though he could read the words just fine, he knew that the blonde doctor that had written the nots was watching him from across the hall, coming closer with each footstep.

"I didn't know I'd need a translator to start reading patient charts," he shouted towards Chase, shaking the papers so they rattled against one another. Walking into the room, Chase gave a sidelong glance at the patient, who was heavily sedated for the time being, before marching straight up to the diagnostician. Clearly irritated at House's antics, Chase snatched the papers from House's hand, and read them over.

"It's just a note to do additional imaging on the bile ducts. Cameron mentioned something about biliary cirrhosis at our last meeting, and it just made me think to check to see if there were any abnormalities in the duodenum-"

"Sure," House interrupted, snatching the file back and shaking the papers back and forth again. While Chase seemed less than amused at his employer mocking the perpetual tremor in his right hand, he did nothing more than roll his eyes and walk over to the patient's cluster of monitors, scanning the numbers with apparent thoughtfulness.

"Operating's still a risk if his BP doesn't stabilize," Chase said thoughtfully, clearly more to himself than to House. The diagnostician silently agreed, but he knew that it would be senseless in giving verbal confirmation in the off chance it would be misinterpreted as praise. He gave instructions instead, the possible side-effects of each action playing out like a movie in his mind.

"Go get Foreman and have him ready for a lumbar puncture." Rather than obediently trotting away at his request, Chase paused, staring down at the patient. After a moment, he looked at House, his lips drawn in a thin line before he mustered the courage to speak.

"I think I can do it, House. I've been doing injections just fine," Chase pleaded, his eyes sparkling with rare hope. The former was true; House had been watching the intensivist learn to steady his hand, hold onto pens, grip syringes, and learn to write his name all over again. He had watched the scar tissue on Chase's hand stretching and flexing with tender new muscles, trying to remember how to live as he once had. Chase had been surviving on the team as nothing more than a clever mind to bounce theories off of, for his expertise and creativity hadn't dulled with his physical injuries. But he wasn't ready to move on from this role quite yet, and they both knew it.

"If you think I'm letting you near a patient's spine, Captain Parkinson's, you're wrong," House said, shaking his head in feigned disappointment before limping a few steps closer to the younger man. "If you can make your handwriting legible, maybe, just maybe, I'll consider letting you try putting in a catheter or something. I'm keeping you far away from the nervous system for the time being." As the last word came out of his mouth, House moved past Chase into the hall, doing his best to avoid the crestfallen face of the former intensivist. He didn't quite move fast enough, however, for he caught the few words that Chase whispered in passing.

"Essential tremors are incurable. There's nothing more they can do for me. I can't get any better. My mind's fucked and my hand's worse. This is as good as it's going to get."

House shook his head, not evening turning to look back as he carried on into the hallway.

"And I'm a dead man walking on a dead leg. Don't think you're special. We're all lost causes."

-H-O-U-S-E-

Chase sat alone in his apartment, the lights on, and the hands on the clock pointing far past midnight. An open beer sat on the coffee table, alongside a slew of medical journals on peripheral neuropathy and equipment for home-based physical therapy. In his hands, he shifted a bottle of pills back and forth, hearing the tablets bounce off of one another at a pitch that terrorized his tender ears. He first heard the rattling in House's pocket, and then in his own, a never ending percussion, for they were both chasing their pain like dogs chasing their tails.

The demons lived in their crushed spirits, dead dreams that rotted in hollow hearts. As Chase visualized, the blood in the heart turned black, and brought that pain to their minds, where it festered into an unbearable, silent agony. It was practically inescapable, but if he did just enough, he could forget. If he drank enough, if he swallowed enough pills, if he smoked enough, the ghosts of hands on his body went away, and the stinging in his fingers was numbed for just a while. If he abused himself, he was able to escape, if only for a few moments in time.

But he was tired. He was tired of the escapism. He was tired of living a bitter half-life full of shortcomings and personal failures. The sentencing was supposed to be his redemption, and his reinstatement his resurrection. Instead, he had been faced with wall after wall of disappointment. Colleagues glanced at him with what he could only describe as pity. His employers had restricted the amount of work that he was allowed to do until he demonstrated he had made a full recovery. Even months later, the occasional reporter showed up, begging for the gory details of his encounter with the oncologist-turned-rapist. Balancing this with regular physical therapy, appointments with a psychologist, and his job, had brought him near his breaking point.

 _Am I really nothing more than a lost cause? Am I a dead man walking?_ He studied the pills again, tempted to pry the lid off and swallow a few just to chase away the pain for the night. His eyes flickered back to the various tools he had been given by his physical therapist to hone his fine motor skills. With a trembling right hand, he reached out and picked up the yellow stress ball with a bright, smiling face on it. The emotion displayed by the ball was one that Chase had struggled to feel for quite some time now. But he took it nonetheless, and forced his shaking fingers to close tightly around it. The foam depressed slowly, the smiling face distorting as he pushed himself further and further, his fingers almost forming a complete fist.

Releasing the tension from the ball, he eyed the pill bottle once more.

 _No_ , he thought to himself. _Dead men don't keep fighting. That man didn't kill me. He made me stronger_. Without even taking the time to process the urge, Chase flung the pill bottle across the room, and it hit the wall before clattering to the floor. House's weathered and bitter scowl filled his mind's eye, and he found himself fighting back tears. He gripped down on the stress ball again, willing his fingers to have the strength that he had failed to find before. For just a moment, his fingers stopped shaking, as though they were frozen in time. A single tear rolled down his cheek, moved by the sudden bliss he found in his own stillness.

 _I'm going to be a better man_ , he promised himself as his fingers began to shake again. _I'm not going to give up on my dreams_.

-The End-

 **Thank you everyone for reading! Thank you to everyone that has stuck with me through the two years it took for me to finish this story. Two years! Incredible, isn't it? The fact that this story has gotten so much love, even after months without updates, fills my heart with joy. It was definitely a pleasure to write, and it makes me feel so good that you all were able to enjoy as well. Your reviews were what called me back to finish, even after a year of hiatus. The support I've received has been unparalleled.**

 **I'd like to thank all of those regular reviewers, particularly FrankieFandom, The Ghostly Horse, belletane, Pallada, and autumnamberleaves for the never-ending love and support! You guys are the ones that inspired me to keep writing, and eventually write this story to a close. Your encouragement has made sure that I've never stopped writing, and the kind words have meant the world and more to me.**

 **As for the end of this story, I've left the true ending up to the reader. We all know that sometimes, there is no happy ending. Whether or not Chase loses his battle is up to you and your imagination. I, personally, would like to imagine that he finds peace.**

 **Remember, even if you think you may lose, or think that you're nothing but a lost cause, remember to keep fighting. Always, always keep fighting. Never give up on your dreams. Believe in yourself. Your life is worth living.** ** _You are incredible just as you are._**


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